


Let Me Count the Ways

by zimriya



Series: 10 Things AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I say loosely, Loosely based on 10 Things I Hate About You, M/M, So arguably, a more cultured me might try to say it's based on Taming of the Shrew, b/c I went crazy and changed up loads of stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimriya/pseuds/zimriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, let me get this straight,” says Combeferre after three rings. He sounds half asleep, and Enjolras winces. “Your crazy ex-convict of a father has decided that Cosette can only date people once you do?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>There’s the sound of movement as Combeferre unplugs his phone and settles back against his pillows. “And you, somehow--stupidly, I might add--decided to make her happy by agreeing to date someone?”</p><p>“Yes.” There’s a very pregnant pause. Enjolras curls and uncurls his hands into fists.</p><p>“Right,” says Combeferre. “We’re having this conversation tomorrow.” And then he hangs up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I hate that you surprise me

**Author's Note:**

> For [Flamingo](http://crazygreenflamingo.tumblr.com/)! B/c she was like WRITE IT and I did. Betaed by the lovely soph, who is a star. All other mistakes are my own.

**1\. I hate that you surprise me**

\--

Enjolras gets home just in time to catch the tail end of Cosette’s shouts. His sister storms past him on her way out of the house without a word and stalks around the corner towards their porch chair, leaving the door clattering her wake. He watches her go with an arched eyebrow, before reaching out to catch the still rattling door.

 “Okay, then,” he says, and steps into the house.

He finds their father standing in the middle of the foyer, eyes wide and mouth open, with his hands outstretched. It would be amusing, if not for the slightly terrifying tremor to his hands and the way he appears to be looking straight through Enjolras. There is a small part of Enjolras that refuses to be unseen, so he has to physically tamp down the urge to snap at Valjean.

He settles for turning his head towards the front door purposefully. Valjean doesn’t seem to get to hint, and continues to stare back at him blankly. “So, what was that?” Enjolras says, finally, after the silence starts to stretch. Valjean doesn’t move. “Right,” Enjolras says, setting his bag down on the floor and heading towards the kitchen. “The usual, then. I’ll go talk to her.”

Valjean’s mouth opens, but before he can say anything, the phone rings. He steps quickly into the kitchen and reaches to pick it up. “Inspector Javert?” he says, giving Enjolras a grateful smile when he walks by on his way to the fridge. “I--reports of shouting from the neigh--Javert, you’re the only person who lives close enough to us to be able to hear shouting, honestly--”

Valjean sounds put upon, but the slightly amused quirk to his lips betrays his true feelings; the way his shoulders are still not quite relaxed betrays the way he’s still thinking about Cosette.

Enjolras sighs, grabs a carton of orange juice from the fridge, and heads back towards the door. If Valjean is unhappy about that, he doesn’t say anything.

Cosette is perched on the swing with one leg curled up to her chest and the other foot dragging in circles on the wood floor. Her hair is down, but it doesn’t look like it began that way. It’s sticking out a bit in the back, but somehow she pulls that off. A few flyaway strands are falling in her face, and she winds them around her pinky.

Enjolras steps past to her to lean against the railing. “Hey,” he says.

Cosette doesn’t look up at him. “Hey,” she says back. “How was school?”

A few stray tears make their way down her face, and she doesn’t even bother hiding them. Something deep in Enjolras’ chest tightens into a ball of protective rage. “Good,” he says. “You?”

“Make any teachers cry today?” Cosette says, instead of answering the question.

Enjolras resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Not you, too,” he says, dryly. “I get enough of that from Courfeyrac.”

Cosette laughs, but it lacks her usual charm. “If it happens once, it can happen again,” she points out.

Enjolras lets out a long breath. “Need I remind you that the incident in question happened years ago?”

This time, Cosette’s laugh is genuine, if watery, and she wipes at her eyes. “You were seven,” she says.

“He was wrong,” he replies. “And he knew it.”

Cosette makes an odd sound in the back of her throat. “You know, a normal person would have let it go.”

“Why?” Enjolras says, more than a little honestly. “What’s the point in agreeing with a wrong answer?”

Cosette shrugs. “Anyway,” she says, quickly, before Enjolras can open his mouth to argue further, “You’ve made teachers cry before.”

“It was that one time,” Enjolras reiterates. “And I was seven.” It takes a moment for the absurdity of that sentence to sink in. “Oh, god.”

Cosette’s lips twitch. “See?” she says.

Enjolras reaches out and cuffs her over the head. “Shut up,” he says, and  leans down to hold the juice out to her.

“Thanks.” She takes it and unscrews the cap. “Papa is going to kill you,” she mumbles, before she takes a long sip.

Enjolras snorts. “He saw me take it,” he says. “Didn’t seem all that bothered.”

Cosette gives him a look.

“Alright, so he was on the phone with Javert--”

“That makes more sense.” Cosette snickers, and turns to look over at the neighboring house. Enjolras follows her line of sight; he swears he can see blinds rustling. “Was he angry?”

Enjolras turns to look back down at her. “At you?” he says, quietly. She nods. “Cosette, he’s never angry at you. He loves you.”

She laughs, but it’s bitter, and does nothing to ease the knot that's settled into Enjorlas' chest. “He has a pretty odd way of showing it,” she says, tightly. “I’m not a baby.”

It’s on the tip of Enjolras’ tongue to mention that she will always be his baby sister, but something about the sharpness of her eyes gives him pause. “No,” he says, instead. “And he doesn’t think you are.”

Cosette’s lips purse. “It’s not like I’m going to start whoring myself out,” she continues. “I’d just like to be able to hang out with people who aren’t girls.”

Enjolras blinks. “Hang out,” he repeats.

“And it’s not like it’s just boys in general,” his sister continues, unperturbed. “It’s just the one.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Oh?” he says.

Cosette goes a little pink. “Yeah,” she says, softly. “His name’s Marius.”

Enjolras very quickly reviews the sophomore class roster and comes up blank. He frowns. “Do you have class with him?”

“Oh, no,” Cosette says. “I haven’t really spoken to him yet, actually. I mean, he said hello.”

Enjolras isn’t sure how to respond to that. “Oh?” he settles for. “Run that by me again?”

“I was a little late to English today, because Eponine forgot her text book and I let her borrow mine.”

Enjolras nods; he knows well enough that Eponine can’t afford any more absences, let alone being late.

“So I was running, and I ran into him. He dropped all of his books. Tried to tell me to ‘just go’--it was sweet, actually.”

Enjolras’ lips twitch. “Did you?” he says.

Cosette grins. “Of course not,” she says, tossing her head back and raising her nose. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I need people to look after me.”

Enjolras gives her his haughtiest look. “Quite right, too,” he says, primly.

They keep straight faces for all of three seconds, before they dissolve into fits of giggles. “Was he nice?” he asks, finally, when the shudders have subsided.

“Very,” Cosette says, softly. “I want to see him again.”

Enjolras nods, and figures, now or never.  “What did dad say?”

Cosette sighs. “The usual,” she says. “No dating, no exceptions, you know the drill.”

Enjolras does. “That sucks,” he says.

“I’ll say,” says Cosette. “It’s not like it’s the end of the world. We probably wouldn’t end up doing much of anything, anyway. Just see a movie, or something.”

Enjolras shoots her a sideways look. “Or something?” he says.

“Or something,” Cosette repeats, rolling her eyes. “You know, first date type things.” She waits. “Kissing, Enjolras, god--”

Enjolras makes a face.

“-but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be irresponsible.”

Enjolras is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think he thinks you’re going to be,” he says, and somehow manages to hold strong in the face of her dubious expression. “To be fair, his only experience with your friends has been Eponine and Montparnasse.”

Cosette’s lips thin, but she doesn’t try to deny it. “It’s still unfair,” she says quietly.

Enjolras takes the empty spot next to her and shoves her lightly with his shoulder. She shoves back, and Enjolras ends up slumped next to her on the swing, pressed shoulder to shoulder. “True,” he says softly. “What was it about this time?”

Cosette goes abruptly pink. “Um,” she says. “Don’t hate me?”

“You do realize that does nothing to comfort me?” says Enjolras, taking the carton of orange juice from her hand and taking his own sip. “And I could never hate you.”

Cosette’s mouth, which had fallen open when he’d taken the juice, snaps shut. “Right,” she says, slowly, taking the carton mindlessly when he hands it back. “I mean, yes, but. You have to understand I was angry?”

Enjolras waves a hand at her in a ‘yes, go on’ sort of way and raises an eyebrow.

Cosette takes a deep breath and lets it out in one go. “I may have mentioned how you don’t even want to date people and, uh, Papa decided that I couldn’t until you did.”

It’s Enjolras’ turn to be surprised. “I,” he says. “He did what?”

“I’m not allowed to date until you do?” Cosette’s smile is blinding; Enjolras feels a headache coming on.

“You’re not allowed to date until I do?” he asks.

Cosette, if possible, smiles even wider. “Yes?”

“Right.” Enjolras gets to his feet, sighing. “You owe me,” he says, and the sounds of her excitement as he rounds the corner are well worth the sudden blooming pain in the back of his temples.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Cosette shouts after him, and somehow manages to come thundering into the house before he does. She races past Valjean, still on the phone, pausing to put the orange juice back into the fridge and to peck him on the cheek, before disappearing up the stairs. No doubt, of course, to call Eponine.

Enjolras just shakes his head when Valjean shoots him a confused look, picks up his laptop bag, and heads towards his own room.

It’s only later, after he’s finished three assignments and finished studying for the first test of the year, that it occurs to him that he has quite possibly not thought this through. “Fuck,” he says, and gets up to find his phone.

\--

“So, let me get this straight,” says Combeferre after three rings. He sounds half asleep, and Enjolras winces. “Your crazy ex-convict of a father--”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, your crazy _father_ , has decided that Cosette can only date people once you do?”

“Yes.”

There’s the sound of movement as Combeferre unplugs his phone and settles back against his pillows. “And you, somehow-- _stupidly_ , I might add--decided to make her happy by agreeing to date someone?”

“Yes.” There’s a very pregnant pause. Enjolras curls and uncurls his hands into fists.

“Right,” says Combeferre. “We’re having this conversation tomorrow.” And then he hangs up.

\--

They don’t end up having the conversation until the second half of lunch, because Cosette takes it upon herself to introduce Enjolras to the Marius in question (they have, since yesterday, talked and managed to make plans for their date on Saturday) and he ends up spending the morning playing chaperone to the apparent love birds. It would be sickening if it wasn’t Cosette, and it does nothing to ease the knot of tension that had settled into his stomach when the logistics of dating had finally caught up with him.

He manages to sneak away in time for class, and then Combeferre corners him outside his locker.

“Spill,” says his friend, and Enjolras is overwhelmed with sudden relief.

“Thank god you’re here,” he says, throwing a quick look around them, before letting out a deep breath. “How are we going to play this?”

Combeferre frowns. “Play what?” he says.

Enjolras blinks at him. “The fake dating thing,” he says. “I figure it’s safer to not even try to find an outside party, and you’re kind of my best friend?”

Combeferre just sort of stares at him for a long moment, before snickering, which turns into actual laughter, and Enjolras ends up standing in front him with his eyes narrowed waiting for him to compose himself. “Are you--you’re serious, aren’t you?” Combeferre says. “Enjolras, listen, I love you.”

Enjolras makes a face.

“But I’m not going to fake date you to make your sister happy.”

Enjolras glares at him. “Why not?”

“Why--” Combeferre runs a hand through his hair. “Enjolras,” he says. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or amused--”

“It’s the first one,” Enjolras says between his teeth.

Combeferre just wave a hand. “Semantics,” he says. “But the point remains.” He pauses, most likely for effect, and Enjolras would call him on it if he didn’t recognize the action as one of his own. “I’m not exactly on the market.”

Enjolras would be curious, if he didn’t feel well on his way to itching out of his own skin. “Oh,” he says, instead.

“Yeah.” Combeferre shakes himself. “Also, this could be good for you.”

“How the hell could this be good for me?” Enjolras nearly spits out. He glances around Combeferre at the clock; he has three hours to find a date, before Cosette gets out of choir and tells Valjean about her own date with Marius.

“Well,” Combeferre says, reasonable despite Enjolras’ panic. “You’ve never dated before.”

Enjolras shoots him a fairly venomous look. “News to me,” he says sharply. And then, “sorry.”

Combeferre’s lips twitch. “It could be good for you,” he says seriously. “You could use other perspectives.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I have other perspectives,” he says. “You, for example.”

“Enjolras,” says Combeferre. “Tell me the last time we disagreed.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, and then shuts it. “That doesn’t count,” he says, quickly. “Jehan--”

“The point being,” Combeferre interrupts, “Dating isn’t the end of the world, no matter how your father might view it.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Valjean doesn’t give a fuck who I date.”

Combeferre’s eyebrows raise.

“What?” Enjolras says, flushing. “I had to come out to him, okay?”

“Right.”

“Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being completely devoted to your school work.”

“I never said there was,” says Combeferre. He steps forward to avoid a rush of people, and Enjolras ends up semi pinned against the lockers. He very stubbornly refuses to look away from Combeferre. “That would be pretty hypocritical of me, actually.”

“How so?”

Combeferre snorts. “I’m second behind you in all of our classes,” he says, reasonably. “And have dated. Am dating.”

Again, Enjolras would be curious, but he only has three hours. He crosses his arms protectively in front of his chest. “Right,” he says. “So what would you suggest, then?”

Combeferre opens his mouth to respond, but it’s Courfeyrac’s voice that interrupts them.

“Enjolras!” he crows. “I hear you need to find someone to date you by the end of the day?”

The look Enjolras turns on Combeferre would make a wiser man fear for his life; Combeferre simply raises both of his hands and leaves.

“Remember!” he calls over his shoulder. “It’ll be good for you!”

Enjolras flips him off, or rather tries to, because Courfeyrac takes a hold of his extended hand before he can get the full effect. “Hey,” Enjolras starts to say, but Courfeyrac is already off, hauling him along with surprising strength. “I don’t agree with this,” he says, but doesn’t fight nearly as hard as he could.

“I’ve been waiting for this for years,” says Courfeyrac, unperturbed. “I’ve been making plans.”

“Years,” says Enjolras.

“Years.” Courfeyrac doesn’t even look at him. “If I didn’t think you’d murder me on the spot, I’d tell you all about the secret notes I’ve been taking to ascertain your type.”

“What?” says Enjolras.

“What?” repeats Courfeyrac, and he’s very lucky that Enjolras is too desperate to bother pursuing anything.

“So, her?” says Courfeyrac, pointing at a brown haired girl with one hand and, at the same time, somehow managing to get an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. He feels like he’s on a dating game show.

“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras hisses, grabbing his hand and trying to yank it down so that his friend isn’t randomly pointing. “Stop that!”

“No?” Courfeyrac’s grip on his shoulders prevents him from pulling away. “Any particular reason why?” He maneuvers them down the hallway with far more cheer than necessary. “I ask this only from a purely scientific perspective,” he adds. “Because I have it on good authority that her name is Patricia, if that helps.” He pauses, and turns doe eyes on Enjolras, who honestly has no idea what he’s talking about.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

Courfeyrac stares at him for a few seconds with an almost cross-eyed expression on his face, before he looks away and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘patria’--which makes no sense; Courfeyrac isn’t even taking French.

“How about her?” Courfeyrac has the decency not to point this time, but he tilts his head towards the girl in question. She’s blonde, tall, and reminds Enjolras entirely too much of Cosette. He gives Courfeyrac a blank look. “No?” his friend says. “Drat.”

They continue down the hallway in a similar fashion: Courfeyrac pointing at seemingly random people (though, Enjolras has to admit, he seems to have picked up on his preference for brunettes) and Enjolras vetoing them with all the confidence of one who has never so much as entertained the thought of dating.

“Him, then?” says Courfeyrac, finally, a bit desperately, when they’re nearing the end of the lunch period. He gestures towards a boy who Enjolras knows for a fact is Montparnasse, Eponine’s ex-boyfriend. He turns back to Courfeyrac with an eyebrow raised.

“Are you serious?” he says.

Courfeyrac makes an unnervingly pensive noise in the back of his throat. “How about--”

“No,” Enjolras says, sternly, and finally wrenches his way free. “I don’t need your help, thanks!” he shouts over his shoulder. “I can do this on my own.”

Courfeyrac, he’s fairly certain, is laughing at him, but he refuses to look. “Right!” Courfeyrac manages to say. “Good luck, then!”

This time, Enjolras has no problems in raising up his middle finger.

\--

The first person he tries is a terrified-looking freshman girl with too-large glasses, and she spends the entire conversation staring at him with a less than comforting look of terror, so Enjolras breaks off mid-speech to ask, “Listen, are you okay?” at which point the girl shakes her head quickly and scampers off in a terrified scramble to whisper with her friends. Enjolras pretends that he doesn’t see them, and brings a hand to his temples.

The second person nearly punches him in the face, and Enjolras takes no small pleasure in leaving the guy groaning in the middle of the hall.

The third person is Azelma, Eponine’s little sister, and she almost says yes, before Enjolras’ self-preservation kicks back in and he laughs it off with a poorly worded excuse of a joke. He leaves her glaring at his back, feeling more than a little winded.

“I’m fucked,” he says, under his breath, and checks his watch. He’s got class in about ten minutes. “Completely fucked.” He figures that he should probably start heading back for class.

It is perhaps by chance that he happens upon Eponine when he turns the corner on his way towards his locker. She’s alone, surprisingly, and it’s pure desperation that has him reaching out a hand to stop her.

“Would you go on a date with me?” he says, quickly, before he can overthink it.

Eponine stares at him with a slightly shocked expression on her face, before her mouth falls open. “Oh my god,” she says. “What did you just say?” She doesn’t give him time to respond before she starts laughing, hysterically, for a good few moments. “I’m pretending you didn’t say that,” she tells him,  patting him on the shoulder and walking off, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

Enjolras stares after her with a murderous expression on his face, before very slowly turning his eyes skyward in dismay. Which is how, several moments later, Courfeyrac finds him. “Need some help?” he says, and Enjolras visibly jumps.

“Nope,” he says, immediately, gathering his wits about him and searching the halls frantically for anyone familiar in the slightest. “Not at all. I’m fine.” His eyes catch on a kid at one of the water fountains, wearing a knit cap over brown curls and holding a water bottle in one hand. Enjolras is relatively certain that they had art together freshman year. “I’m just going to,” he says, and refuses to finish, and starts off in the guy’s direction without a backwards glance at Courfeyrac. He can’t remember the guy’s name, but he’s pretty sure it started with an R.

“You,” he says, when he gets within a few feet of the water fountain. The guy finishes his drink, and stands, wiping at his mouth with the back of his arm, before staring back at Enjolras curiously.

“Me,” he repeats.

Enjolras fights the urge to turn around. “Listen, I promise this isn’t creepy, but I really need you to go on a date with me,” he says in one breath, not entirely sure if he wants the heavens to answer his prayers or swallow him whole. “Please,” he tacks on, after a moment.

The guy licks his lips. “Okay,” he says, easily. “And what will you give me?”

Enjolras’ mouth opens to beg more, and then shuts abruptly. “What?” he says.

“I said,” says the guy, and he leans forward to rest one arm against the wall to the left of Enjolras’ head. “What will you give me?”

Enjolras is having trouble thinking straight for how close the guy is; his eyes are very blue. “Things?” he gets out. “I mean, money?”

The guy’s lips twitch. “You’ll pay me to date you,” he repeats, but it’s not really a question.

Enjolras’ response most certainly is. “Yes?”

“Hmm,” says the guy. “Do I get to name my price?”

Enjolras very furiously nods his head. “Yes,” he says. “I mean, no. Two hundred?”

“You’ll pay me two hundred dollars to date you?” the guy says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Are you that bad of a date?”

Enjolras blinks. “What does that have to do with it?” he says sharply.

“Just it’s a bit more than I’d have expected, is all,” says the guy. “Makes me wonder if you’re a bad kisser, or something.”

Enjolras’ lips thin. “I’ll have you know that I am a perfectly fine kisser,” he snaps back, because not dating does not mean abstaining, and he’s been to his fair share of spin the bottle parties. “And also--” he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, however, because the guy leans forward and kisses him. Enjolras’ last thought is that he was probably asking for that. But that too gets swallowed up in the sudden rush of blood to his lips.

It is not, by any stretch of the imagination, an innocent kiss. The guy gets one hand in the curls at the back of Enjolras’ head and pulls, and when that move grants him access to Enjolras’ mouth, he licks his way in with no pause. The other hand comes up to grip Enjolras by the shoulder, tightening ever so slightly when Enjolras’ lips part a little in surprise and he makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Because, wow. This is a kiss. This isn’t a two second, obligatory peck on the lips or the awkward fumbling in a closet for 7 minutes. This is toe-curlingly good, the type of kiss that leaves Enjolras gasping for air and gripping so tight at his own jeans that his hands start to hurt.

 It’s also over incredibly quickly. The guy pulls back after only a few moments, and licks his lips. “Not bad,” he says. And then, “Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up after school, at four.”

He gets about two feet away before Enjolras regains the ability to properly speak. “Hang on!” he tries to shout, and clears his throat before adding, “I don’t even know your name!”

“Really?” says the guy, turning around to look at him. “We had art together.” He takes a few steps to the right and turns so that he’s facing away again. “It’s Grantaire,” he calls over his shoulder. “And, Apollo? You should probably wear something you don’t mind getting dirty.”

Enjolras watches him go for a moment in silence, before Courfeyrac appears at his side and mirrors him.

“So, Grantaire,” he says. “Interesting choice.”

Enjolras shoots him a sideways glance. “What do you mean?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Nothing,” he says. “Apollo.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “What did you just call me?” he says.

“Grantaire did it first,” Courfeyrac points out, which, Enjolras realizes with a slowly sinking feeling in his stomach, is completely and totally true.

“Oh, god,” he says, feeling yet another headache coming on. “What have I _done_?”

“Think of it this way,” says Courfeyrac, putting an arm around his shoulders and steering him towards the classroom. “You’re doing it for Cosette.”

“Cosette,” Enjolras repeats, hoarsely.

“Cosette.”

 


	2. and that you think you’re nothing great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely [kat](http://fourbelts.tumblr.com/), with an additional glance by my dear friend, Bob, in order to deal with my horrible inability to properly use commas. All other mistakes are my own.
> 
> I have been absolutely stunned and overwhelmed by the response to my little attempt to play in this sandbox. I love all of you and your comments (and all of you've who've come to say hi on [tumblr](http://www.zimriya.tumblr.com)) I don't even know what to say, except, "thank you," and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**2\. and that you think you’re nothing great.**

\--

Enjolras, as it turns out, owns nothing that he feels comfortable getting dirty. This is what he tells Cosette, quietly, when they’ve snuck up to the attic to hide from Valjean.

“Nothing?” Cosette whispers from somewhere near his neck. She’s practically vibrating with excitement; Valjean, having learned of Enjolras’ own date, had been unable to come up with any reason for Cosette and Marius to not go see a movie.

“Nothing,” Enjolras replies, not bothering with the whispering. When Cosette is silent, he adds, “What? We’re two floors above him. There’s no way he can hear us.”

Cosette’s lips purse. “You underestimate Papa,” she says, but she says it, so Enjolras isn’t all that miffed. He yawns, and Cosette shifts around so that they’re lying side by side on their backs. “Did you like Marius?”

Enjolras flicks his eyes open at her. They’ve not yet adjusted to the lack of lighting, so he doesn’t see much beyond the faint blonde glow of her head and the whites of her eyes. “Well enough,” he admits.

Cosette punches him.

“Ow, yes. He was lovely.”

She makes a pleased noise. “He is, isn’t he?” she says.

Enjolras groans. “If you’re just going to wax poetic about him, can you let me up? I’m not the one Dad’s angry at.”

Cosette heaves out a long, drawn-out sigh, before rolling away so that Enjolras can inch his way back towards the ladder. “I’ll come with you,” she says, when he’s gone down a few rungs. “I need to help you with your outfit, anyway.”

Enjolras sighs. “I’ve told you,” he says, giving her a hand in pushing the attic door closed and dusting their clothes off. “I have nothing to wear.”

“You have to have something,” she says. “Everyone has that one piece of clothing they hate.”

“Yes, well, everyone probably doesn’t hate their expensive three piece tuxedos,” Enjolras says dryly. “Something tells me Grantaire wouldn’t be all that amused if I showed up black tie.”

“Grantaire?” says Cosette. “Like, crazy, dropped-back-a-year-to-drink-his-way-across-the-country, Grantaire?”

Enjolras blinks at her blankly. “Yes,” he says finally, because that seems safer.

“Huh,” says Cosette. “I didn’t know you liked him.”

Enjolras seriously considers saying that he doesn’t, but thinks better of it.

“I mean,” Cosette continues, leading the way towards Enjolras' bedroom. “Everyone knew he liked you.”

There’s a beat.

“They did?” Enjolras says, trying not to be too obvious.

“Yeah.” Cosette reaches his closet and pulls it open. “He’s not exactly subtle, Enjolras. He’s always staring at you. And he’s at every Mock Trial meeting.”

Enjolras hadn’t known that Cosette was at every Mock Trial meeting. “I’ve never seen him,” he admits.

“No, I wouldn’t have thought so,” says Cosette. She picks out a pair of old ratty jeans that Enjolras had shoved into the bottom of the closet and gives them a quick sniff. “You should probably wash these, but they’re decent.”

Enjolras takes the jeans obediently and puts them in his laundry basket.

“Anyway, Grantaire doesn’t come for the whole meeting, generally. He’s usually late, and he leaves early. You’re probably too distracted turning Combeferre’s arguments to dust to notice.”

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s good practice,” he says.

Cosette snorts. “Good practice would be arguing with someone who actually disagrees with you,” she says. “And, here.” The shirt she hands him is one of his older button downs, red and blue plaid with a hole in one of the sleeves that he can put his thumb through. He takes it silently. “You aren’t objecting.”

“No, I agree,” Enjolras says. “Why do you think I tone it down in the meetings?”

Cosette blinks at him. And then she starts laughing. She’s still laughing all the way out of Enjolras’ room and down the stairs, where she goes briefly silent, and then both she and Valjean are laughing.

Enjolras goes over to his laundry basket, puts the shirt on top of the pants, and then falls face first into his bed.

\--

“But, I mean, you’ve had class with this guy, right?” says Courfeyrac, between bites. They’re eating outside today because of the weather. Combeferre is sitting to his other side doing homework, and Jehan appears to be braiding flowers into the sleeping Bahorel’s hair. (Feuilly and Joly had left earlier, claiming work, but neither of them had escaped without a wreath of daisies.)

And then, in his next breath, Courfeyrac reaches out with his spoon and smacks Enjolras’ hands away from the hem of his shirt. “Stop that.”

“It’s too small,” Enjolras protests.

Combeferre looks up from his book and rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who put it on.”

“Cosette suggested it,” Enjolras points out. “And I wasn’t about to be one of those people who puts on a whole new outfit just for a date.” He picks mindlessly at a few of the loose strings at the knee of his jeans, and shifts the arrangement of his legs so that the left is curled over the right.

Courfeyrac reaches out with his free hand and picks a handful of grass. He throws it at Enjolras. “Baby,” he says.

“To answer your earlier question,” Enjolras says primly, shaking the grass out of his hair. “I had freshman art with him, yes.”

Combeferre looks up over his book at him. “And?” he says.

Enjolras shrugs. “What about it? It’s just a date.”

Courfeyrac mouths his words back at him, but Enjolras is saved from one of his tirades by Jehan.

“It’s not just a date, Enjolras,” Jehan says quietly, not stopping his weaving. Bahorel has an almost crown now. He’s also not really sleeping; Enjolras can tell by the flutter of his fingers in the grass. He hides a smile.

“It really is, though,” Enjolras says. “Neither of us are exactly willing.”

Combeferre pauses in his reading. “What does that mean?” he says. “Specifically?”

Enjolras refuses to meet his eyes. “It’s not that important.”

Courfeyrac points at him with his spoon. “Oh it is now,” he says. “You’re using your tone.”

“I am not using a tone,” says Enjolras severely. He wants very much to cross his arms, but refrains.

“You are, actually,” says Bahorel, without opening his eyes. “Probably making that face as well.”

“He is,” says Courfeyrac, brightly. “Now explain.”

Enjolras scowls. “I might have gotten a bit desperate yesterday,” he says. “Which is entirely your fault, might I add.” He points at Courfeyrac who makes an innocent face. “And I might have offered to pay Grantaire to date me.”

Combeferre very neatly marks his place in his book and sets it aside. “Okay,” he says. “We’re going to go to the beginning of that sentence,” he says.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “It’s not a big deal,” he says. “It’s just one date, and then Cosette will end up marrying Marius, and I can continue with my life.”

“Wait, Marius?” Courfeyrac stops with his sandwich a few inches from his mouth. “Marius Pontmercy?”

Enjolras frowns. “Yeah,” he says. “I thought he was a sophomore, but--” He breaks off, eyes narrowed. Courfeyrac very pointedly does not meet his eyes. “What?”

“Ah, well.” Courfeyrac gives him an appeasing smile. “Nothing?”

Enjolras turns to regard the rest of their friends. “Did anyone believe that?” No one bats an eye. “Right. You were saying?”

Courfeyrac sighs. “It’s not a big deal,” he says. “Just, I know Marius? I mean, not really, he’s in my European History class is all--”

“The one that’s all seniors and juniors,” Enjolras says shortly.

“Um,” says Courfeyrac. “Yes?”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “My dad is going to kill me,” he says. Someone pats him on the back awkwardly.

“I mean, to be fair, Grantaire is older than you,” says Courfeyrac finally, and Enjolras pauses to glare up at him. “What?” Courfeyrac raises both of his hands; he has, somehow, in the span of the past few minutes, eaten his entire sandwich. “It’s true.”

Enjolras bows his head again. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that,” he says. “Again.”

“Again?”

“Cosette mentioned taking off a year to drink himself across the country.” Enjolras waves a hand loosely in the air. “Regardless, it’s just a date.”

“Right,” says Combeferre. “A date that you’re paying for.”

Enjolras sighs. “I was desperate,” he says again, getting to his feet and starts to make his way back towards the building for class. “Besides, it’s not like it’s more than one date.”

“You had better knock on some wood!” Courfeyrac calls after him. “Watch your dad decide to be literal--for every date you go on, Cosette gets one also!”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, because not even Valjean is that crazy.

\--

Valjean is that crazy.

The ensuing fight brings Javert to their doorstep. The inspector arrives moments after Cosette pulls the mom card, and Enjolras is for once grateful for their more than scrupulous neighbor. Valjean has never been exactly secretive about Fantine, but he’s also never been forthcoming. When Cosette slaps her name down on the table, his eyes go very dark. Javert’s arrival (and Grantaire’s soon after) gets him both out of the kitchen and the house.

He throws Cosette an apologetic look as he passes the good police inspector in his dash out of the house. She just smiles back at him, before continuing to glare at their father. “Have fun,” she mouths, and that must be enough to distract Valjean from his daughter, because the man comes out after Enjolras to glare forebodingly down at Grantaire.

Enjolras rolls his eyes and comes to stand in front of him. “Hi,” he says.

“So, that’s your dad, then?” Grantaire says. He fucking _waves_. Enjolras narrows his eyes, and then, realizing, blinks; Grantaire hasn’t come in a car at all.

“What is that?” he says.

Grantaire stares back at him innocently. “What’s what?” he says.

Enjolras shakes his head a few times. “So ground rules,” he says, ignoring the motorcycle for a moment. “This is a fake date.”

It’s quite possible that Grantaire rolls his eyes, but Enjolras isn’t sure because he is, at least, wearing a helmet. “So you’ve said,” Grantaire says.

“I’ll pay you after--also, it’s sounding like I’m going to need more than one of these.” He casts a look back over his shoulder at the house. It’s gone quiet, but that’s more worrying, actually.

“No problem.” Grantaire takes the helmet off and puts it under his arm. The move is so absurdly biker that Enjolras almost shakes his head. Grantaire’s lips quirk. “Same price?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “I’m not completely sold on those two hundred dollars,” he says. “What if you’re a crap date?”

Grantaire grins. “I could always kiss you. That seemed to work.”

Enjolras does not flush. “Anyway,” he says. “We can negotiate price after.”

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras extends a hand for him to shake. Grantaire takes it, but uses it to drag him forward until they’re a hair’s breadth away. He tilts his head back, and leans in close.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras breathes, suddenly more than a little heated in his button down.

Grantaire lets out a slow puff of air against his lips. “This is a date, remember?” he says. “None of that handshaking stuff.”

“Handshaking stuff,” Enjolras repeats. Grantaire waves a hand. “What would you suggest?”

“Mm,” says Grantaire. “I think that this should do.”

He kisses him, briefly, nothing more than a bump of lips, but Enjolras is left half frozen when he pulls back. “Very worth the two hundred dollars,” Grantaire says quietly, and gestures at a second helmet. He sticks his own back on.

“My father is going to kill me,” Enjolras says, but takes the helmet anyway and gets on the bike. “Also, tell anyone about this and I’ll kill _you_.”  He drapes his arms around Grantaire’s waist and sighs.

“No you won’t,” Grantaire replies. “Because you’d be dead.”

Enjolras twacks him on the shoulder. “You don’t know that,” he says. “I could end up a ghost.”

“Whatever you say, Apollo,” Grantaire replies, and while Enjolras can’t see his face through the helmet, he can practically hear the smile in his words.

“Also stop calling me that.”

\--

“You’re not serious,” Enjolras says, when they arrive.

Grantaire looks over at him from where he’s been trying (and failing) to pull his curls back and out of his eyes. “Completely,” he says. “Now put that on.”

Enjolras stares down at the white full body suit. “I’m going to look like I’m a member of a hazmat team,” he says.

Grantaire shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter, anyway,” he says. “It’s going to be rainbow when I’m finished with you.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “You’re joking,” he says.

“Nope,” says Grantaire, grinning, as he pulls the goggles over his head. “Come on. Live a little; it’ll be fun.”

“You and I have very different definitions of fun,” Enjolras says, but he puts the suit and goggles on anyway.

“I’ll say,” says Grantaire, and picks up the paint ball gun. “And start.”

“Wait, hang on--” Enjolras manages to say before Grantaire’s first splotch of paint hits him square in the chest, sending him stumbling back a few feet and coloring him a bright red.

“Hmm,” says Grantaire. “That’s a good color on you.”

Enjolras sets his lips into a thin line and dives for his own gun.

“I’m one color closer to the rainbow, Apollo!” Grantaire calls from somewhere hidden in the maze of obstacles the course has. “And two!”

“What?” Enjolras says, wishing that he’d properly pulled his hair out of his eyes. He looks up in time to catch a quick glimpse of Grantaire’s shoes as he disappears behind a bale of hay before a splotch of orange paint hits him square in the face. He can’t gape for fear of the painting getting in his mouth, but he drags an arm across his face anyway. He can feel it seeping into his curls. “I am going to kill you,” Enjolras says, quietly. He waits a few moments for Grantaire to peek out from behind the bale of hay, and then he hurtles himself after him with a frankly terrifying battle shriek.

“Holy--!” says Grantaire, ducking around a corner and heading off in a flurry of footsteps.

Enjolras barely spares a thought for how much fun this is actually turning out to be as he unloads a solid ball of green paint against the other’s ass. He follows it up with a suitably vibrant red. “Huh,” he says, pausing to breathe.

Grantaire cranes his head around to look.

“You look like Christmas,” Enjolras says, grinning sharply. “I bet you I can make you look like the holiday before you make me look like a rainbow.”

Grantaire shoots him an equally vicious looking grin. “Deal,” he says. “In fact, I’ll do you a favor. If you win, you don’t have to pay me for this date.”

If possible, Enjolras’ lips curve up even more. “Perfect,” he says.

“Starting to see why you were willing to pay two hundred dollars,” says Grantaire. “Because that is terrify--shit!” A wiz of blue paint just barely misses his ear. “Hey, watch the hair!”

Enjolras comes skidding after him to land him solidly in the center of the chest with a bright, lime green. “Should have thought of that before you ruined mine,” he says, and laughs when Grantaire makes a noise that sounds like it’s not sure if it wants to be terrified or aroused. “And I take it back. This _is_ fun.”

\--

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Aw, come on, Enjolras, it’s not that bad,” says Grantaire, blatantly ignoring him but also not running to catch up with him. Enjolras keeps walking. “You didn’t lose, at least?”

Enjolras stops abruptly and whirls to face him. “I didn’t, actually,” he says. “In fact, I won. Which would not have been noteworthy, had you not nodded sagely at me and then emptied an entire bucket of paint on top of my head.”

Grantaire looks offended. “Hey, I spent a good ten minutes on that pulley system,” he says. “Also the trap.”

Enjolras’ lips tighten. “It was unsporting,” he says, stiffly. He has both hands clenched into tight fists at his side, and he makes a point to release his grip. The skin of his palms ends up peppered with tiny crescent marks from his nails, which he ignores.

“Well.” Grantaire doesn’t even try to deny it.

Enjolras raises one paint coated eyebrow for emphasis and waits.

“To be fair, you did threaten to take away my two hundred dollars,” Grantaire says finally, far too cheerfully. “I was within my rights.”

Enjolras grits his teeth on a biting reply, and starts walking again. “Fuck you,” is what he wants to say, but there’s just enough truth to that statements dual meaning that he can’t bring himself to.

“Ah, come on--Apollo!” He can hear the near silent press of Grantaire’s shoes against the gravel as he follows. “Enjolras,” Grantaire amends, and Enjolras heaves a long sigh before stopping obligingly to allow Grantaire to take a few looping steps to stand before him.

“Yes?”

Grantaire lets out a long breath. “Alright,” he says. “Do your worst.” He closes his eyes and inclines his head just so; a beam of sunlight ends up getting tangled in his eyelashes and highlighting the bridge of his nose. Enjolras swallows, suddenly acutely aware of their closeness.

“What are you--” he says, with too much confusion coloring his tone. He clears his throat. “What _are_ you doing?”

Grantaire peels open one eye. “Letting you take revenge,” he says straightforwardly, and reaches out with one hand to take a hold of Enjolras’ right wrist.

“Wait, no! You’ll--!” Enjolras tries to protest, pulling his hand back too slowly. Grantaire’s fingers end up a warm circle around his forearm, and Enjolras can see them slowly turning the same shade of fuchsia as his entire left side. He winces. “That,” he says. “You’ll do that.”

Grantaire shrugs and shoots him a crooked grin. “What these hands?” he says, raising the other hand in a show. “I’m an artist, Apollo. They’ve seen worse.” He gives the hand a wave for good measure, and his use of the infernal nickname is almost lost in the dexterity of his fingers. “Besides,” he continues, sounding more than a little amused at what is no doubt an appallingly dazed look in Enjolras’ eyes. “How else are you to take your revenge?”

Enjolras eyes him dubiously. “You want me to get you dirty?” he says, flatly.

 There is a very small, awkward silence.

“Yes,” Grantaire says finally, voice sounding strained. “Not my word choice--”

Enjolras can feel the tips of his ears burn.

“--But that idea, generally.” He flexes his fingers a few times against Enjorlas’ arm, and Enjolras is very suddenly reminded of that point of contact. He pulls his arm free. “I wouldn’t be opposed to the other implications, of course,” Grantaire adds, sounding much too pleased with himself.

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him, purses his lips, and reaches out with one hand to drag his palm down the slope of his nose. When his pulls his hand away, Grantaire is blinking back at him, and sporting a rather flattering shade of ice blue all down the left side of his nose. “Woops,” Enjolras says, hiding a grin. “Were you saying something?

Grantaire gives him a considering look. “Well, actually--” he starts to say.

Enjolras takes his other hand and smears it, fingers and all, right across the right half of Grantaire’s face. “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t even sound convincing to himself. The entire side of Grantaire’s face is now a striking cadmium red, and the combination of the blue makes Enjolras’ lips twitch. “How patriotic,” he says.

Grantaire grins, and reaches up to touch his cheek. His fingertips come away red. “Clever,” he says.

Enjolras shrugs. “So they tell me,” he says mildly.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Arrogant,” he says.

“Truthful,” Enjolras counters.

He gets a half surprised, full-bodied laugh for that one, and he doesn’t have to even think before he’s reaching out with a hand to press half of a flower into the curve of Grantaire’s exposed neck.

Or he intends to; Grantaire moves in the split second that Enjolras moves, and his fingers get caught somewhere between his cupids bow and his top lip. Enjolras freezes, body suddenly thrumming, and Grantaire’s eyes fall to half mast. “That’s certainly--” he says, breaking off.

Enjolras can feel himself flush even harder, but he doesn’t move his hand away.

“What I mean, Apollo,” Grantaire continues, unperturbed at the way Enjolras’ fingers drag across his lips. “Is that this is probably not all that sanitary.”

Enjolras makes a considering noise in the back of his throat, and watches the way Grantaire darts his tongue out to just barely miss his index finger. “Probably,” he says slowly.

Grantaire’s eyes are practically dancing. “I’ve probably had worse, however.” He actually bats his eyelashes; Enjolras finds himself torn between smacking him and throwing him down on the nearest flat surface. “In my mouth, I mean.”

Enjolras ends up backtracking furiously over that last sentence, and in the span of that moment, Grantaire leans in even closer, the bastard.

“Not at all in _that_ way, Enjolras, honestly,” he says softly, taking a hold of Enjolras’ hands and curling them into his own. “I’m an artist.” He gives Enjolras’ hands one last squeeze, before stepping back gracefully. “Paint gets in all sorts of odd places.”

Enjolras would like very much to gape at him. Instead, he shakes himself vigorously. “Shut up,” he says when Grantaire’s grin gets to be too smug. “You’re taking me back to your place.”

The smile on Grantaire’s face seems to slip. “I’m what?”

“It’s your fault,” Enjolras says, matter of factly. “That I look like this.” He gestures down at the splattering of paint covering all of his exposed skin and the once white full body suit. The staff had taken one look at him in his paint coated glory, and said nothing when he refused to give back the suit. “My father will kill me if I come home looking like this. Hence, you are taking me back to your place and I am using your shower.”

Grantaire makes a wounded sounding noise. “Right,” he says. “I mean, far be it for me to take full credit for your rather stunning visage--” Enjolras mouths the last few words to himself while Grantaire watches with an amused smile. He’s not at all certain if what he’s feeling should be termed horror or lust. “But by all means, come monopolize my shower.”

Enjolras doesn’t think. “I wouldn’t monopolize it,” he says briskly. “I’m sure it’s large enough for more than one person.”

Grantaire gives him till they reach the motorbike for that to sink in.

“Fuck,” Enjolras says, eloquence gone, and gives Grantaire a look. “Say nothing.”

Grantaire raises both hands and gets on the bike.

Enjolras eyes him long and hard. “I’m going to ruin the leather,” he says. “Also your clothes.”

The smile Grantaire flashes him is absolutely beaming. “That’s okay,” he says. “I recently came into some money. Two hundred dollars should be enough to cover it, don’t you think.”

Enjolras had been in the process of sliding into place behind him when he finishes, and so he feels entirely justified in tangling his paint covered fingers into the dark curls at the base of Grantaire’s neck.

\--

Grantaire’s place is nothing at all what Enjolras had initially assumed it would be: too clean, too large, and too darkly lit to feel lived in. There are few family photos lining the wall that offer a glimpse into the family living within, but when Enjolras looks closer it’s clear that most of them are scripted. There’s one picture of a much younger Grantaire and a tiny, stick thin, little scrap of a girl covered in face paint and grinning into the camera. There are two hand shaped smudges of paint on the girls bare shoulders, and Enjolras finds himself grinning at the irony of that.

“Make yourself at home,” says Grantaire. He deposits the key he used to let them in into a dish on the counter of the kitchen and vanishes down the hallway. “Let me just grab some towels.”

Enjolras ends up standing awkwardly in the foyer, trying not to get paint on anything, and continuing staring blankly at the wall. His eyes get stuck on a hastily framed drawing, and he takes a few careful steps forward to look at it. It’s a simple sketch, probably done in a spur of the moment quick gesture of the hands, yet it still manages to take his breath away. It’s only moments later, when Grantaire reappears carrying two surprisingly fluffy towels, that the subject makes itself known.

“Hey,” Enjolras says. “Is this me?”

Grantaire makes a choked noise, and very quickly puts himself between Enjolras and the frame. “No,” he says. And then, considering, “It’s from freshman art.”

Enjolras tilts his head to the side. “Right,” he says. “The class we had together.”

Grantaire stares at him blankly, before his cheeks abruptly flush pink. “The shower is this way.”

He moves around Enjolras quickly, who spares a brief glance for what is very obviously his profile, bent in concentration over an oil canvas, and follows Grantaire towards the bathroom.

“So, this is the bathroom,” Grantaire says, when they reach what is, apparently, the bathroom. He sets the towels down on the toilet seat and nods awkwardly.

Enjolras raises one eyebrow and starts to peel the white suit off. Grantaire stares back at him, eyes steadily going darker, unblinking. He bundles the paint covered material and quirks an eyebrow. “Where should I...” he says, trailing off.

“Right,” Grantaire says. “Right, I’ll take that. Could be useful, actually, I’m glad you’re just terrifying enough that they let you keep it.” Enjolras reaches up to start on the buttons of his shirt, and Grantaire’s tirade slows to a halt. “Um,” he says. “I’ll just, leave you to it then.”

Enjolras watches his back as he hurries out of the room, and tries very hard to convince himself that the tight knot of feeling unfurling in his chest is not disappointment.

\--

He wastes no time in the bathroom when he gets out of the shower, dressing efficiently and toweling his hair dry before emerging from the room, flipping off the light and padding silently back the way he came.

He ends up down a hallway of bedrooms. One of the doors is slightly ajar, and Enjolras can hear both the sound of a shower and of Grantaire singing. The song is at least in key, but it’s one of those abysmal pop songs that makes Enjolras want to crawl out of his skin. Grantaire must be singing along to an iPod, because the track ends and switches smoothly into another song, this time slower, and Enjolras is surprised to note, not in English.

Grantaire, for his part, switches languages seamlessly, voice carrying much easier now that the song is lower.

Enjolras stands, frozen in the doorway, trying very hard to remember how to breathe until Grantaire emerges in nothing but a towel.

“Oh,” he says, when he sees Enjolras. “Done, then?”

Enjolras manages a nod; he’s not quite sure how.

“Let me just.” He comes forward a few steps--and Enjolras’ heart very seriously attempts to flee his body via mouth--and closes the door to the room.

When he comes out a few minutes later, wearing worn jeans and a t-shirt, he finds Enjolras sitting dazedly at his kitchen counter waiting.

“I take it you need a ride?” Grantaire says.

Enjolras just nods again, because he’s not really sure if he’s capable of real speech.

Grantaire gives him a considering look. “Come on, then,” he says, and stops to grab a set of keys from a bowl on his way to a door. Enjolras follows, confused.

“Where are we going?” He almost doesn’t recognize the rasp of his own voice.

“Garage,” Grantaire says. “We’re taking the car.”

Enjolras just nods, suddenly exhausted. “What time is it?” he says, and pulls out his phone. It’s well past dinner. “Damn.” He has at least two missed calls from Valjean and more texts than he can count. The last few are from Courfeyrac, wishing him good luck, and there’s one from Cosette informing him that she’s managed to prevent their father from heading over to Javert’s house in a panic. He very quietly slips the phone back into his pocket and shuts his eyes. “So, dinner?”

Grantaire shoots him a look. “Does this count as a second date?” he says. “Because I’ve decided how you’re going to repay me.”

“Oh?” Enjolras resists the urge to cross his arms across his chest.

“Mhmm,” Grantaire says. He takes a few steps closer and crowds Enjolras up against the wall. “If I’m remembering correctly, we decided very early on that the reason you could charge two hundred dollars was because of your appalling kissing skills.”

Enjolras tries very hard not to be affronted. “And I thought you decided that appalling though they may be, my kisses were very worth the two hundred dollars,” he says. Grantaire looks ecstatic. “Oh, absolutely not.” Grantaire actually pouts; Enjolras rolls his eyes and snags the keys from him on his way past. “Also, I’m driving.”

Grantaire sputters from behind him. “You’re driving?” he says. “It’s my car.”

Enjolras unlocks said car, and gets into the driver side. Grantaire gapes after him for only a few seconds before scrambling in behind him. “Bastard.”

“Takes one to know one,” Enjolras tells him, smirking, as he pulls out of Grantaire’s garage.

“You don’t deny it then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say much of anything actually, Apollo.” Grantaire begins inclining his seat back in a steady backwards motion, and Enjolras snorts.

“Shut up.”

“Next left,” Grantaire says. “There’s a cafe I work at on weekends, The Musain? I think you’ll like it.”

“Cafe Musain,” Enjolras repeats, a little breathless. “Yeah, I, uh, know it.”

Grantaire grins. “Right, yeah, I forget sometimes that you have the unofficial Mock Trial meetings there.”

Enjolras shoots him a quick look. “Cosette did mention that you’re a member,” he says. “I’ve never seen you there.”

Grantaire’s eyes go tight for a brief second, but the ensuing smile is bright and perfectly cheerful. “Oh?” he says. “I’d say the same, but...” He trails, off, lips taking on a more wry curve, and Enjolras is left trying very hard to listen to what he’s saying. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“You are too,” Enjolras says weakly. “I’m sorry I never noticed.”

Grantaire makes a placating move with his hands. “Not your fault,” he says. “I don’t really do much beyond sketch anyway; your friends have very expressive faces.”

Enjolras very suddenly remembers the hastily done sketch of his own face hanging in Grantaire’s house and flushes a little. “You should,” he says finally, clearing his throat.

Grantaire looks puzzled.

“Talk, I mean. Cosette is always saying how it’d be good if I had someone to bounce ideas off of--someone who disagrees with me.”

“What makes you so certain I disagree with you?”

Enjolras opens his mouth and then shuts it. “I don’t.”

“I’m just messing with you, Apollo.” Grantaire reaches out to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’d be honored to argue with you during Mock Trial.”

Enjolras gives him his most long suffering look.

“What?”

“Your word choice.”

“I could have said ‘undercut,’ but I didn’t. You should be grateful.” They’ve reached the cafe, and Enjolras isn’t sure whether to be happy about that or not.

“You are so lucky that I love my sister,” Enjolras says. “And that Courfeyrac is a bastard.”

Grantaire grins and gets out of the car. “He is, isn’t he?” He lets the door slam with a clang. “And don’t worry, I’m well aware that this is your sister’s doing. I’m planning on thanking her extensively on Tuesday. There might even be flowers. You should be jealous.”

Enjolras scoffs. “Of course,” he says. “That’s right, we’re off on Monday.”

“Mhmm,” says Grantaire. “Does Cosette have a favorite flower?”

“Gladioli,” says Enjolras without thinking. “She likes the meaning.”

“You’ll regret that.” Grantaire has reached the cafe door and is holding the door for him. “I happen to know one of the best florists in the world.”

Enjolras finds himself grinning before he can help himself. “Is that so?”

“Yep,” he says, looking back at him, face going a little soft. “Shall we?”

Enjolras inhales sharply. “Right,” he says, and steps through, very pointedly ignoring the way the tips of his ears are flushing again.

 


	3. I hate your taste in literature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm home, guys! Also, I have the worst fever ever, so obviously my immune system has decided it’s vacation too! Thanks so much for all the interest and comments/asks on tumblr asking after this one; I'm really sorry, finals swallowed me (and then my immune system gave up), but it is here! 
> 
> Betaed by the lovely Kat and Bob and sophh (who now has an ao3 go love her.) All other mistakes are my own.

**3\. I hate your taste in literature.**

\--

“So,” says Cosette. “How did it go?”

Enjolras flicks on the lights to his room.

Cosette is perched inches from his feet, in his desk chair, with a more-than-terrifying expression on her face and her phone in her lap. She stares up at him, unblinking, and doesn’t move an inch.

Enjolras turns the light back off.

“I mean,” Cosette continues into the darkness as he weaves around her and heads for his bed. He reaches for the switch on his bedside lamp and twists it, throwing the room into stark contrast. “You missed dinner--”

Enjolras shuts his eyes and starts counting to ten.

“--and didn’t answer when Papa called you, _twice_ , so it can’t have been completely horrible.”

Enjolras shrugs. “It was fine,” he says, quietly. “We ended up doing a late dinner.” He casts a long-suffering look at the collection of textbooks on his desk, and is for once grateful that it is a Friday.

“Dinner?” Cosette makes a sudden, high pitched noise, and comes forward to hug him. He sighs, obliging, and hugs her loosely back. That isn’t enough for Cosette, apparently, because she takes a firm grip of his shoulders and heaves him towards her, squeezing him unbearably tight.

“Cosette,” Enjolras says, strained. “Breathing?”

“Did you shower?” she says, unconcerned, and pulls back to give him another frighteningly intense look.

Enjolras spends a few seconds frantically pulling air into his lungs. “What?”

“Your hair smells different.” She begins to pace in front of him, mouth torn between a smile and a frown. “Also, I know for a fact I left two buttons undone this morning.”

Enjolras takes a moment to digest that sentence. “We ended up doing paint ball,” he explains, slowly. “And Grantaire doesn’t fight fair.”

Cosette’s eyebrows raise. “By that you mean..?” she asks, trailing off.

Enjolras nods, sighing. “Paint,” he says. “Everywhere.” He makes a gesture to demonstrate the extent of the damage.

“Ah,” Cosette says. “Woops?”

He shrugs. “I was more worried about my hair than the clothes.”

Cosette snorts. “Don’t lie,” she says. “You loved what those jeans did to your ass.” She reaches out to comb through a few of his curls, lips twisting into a smile. Enjolras lets her.

“I got most of it out,” he says dryly. “You don’t have to--”

“So you borrowed his shower?”

Cosette gives the curl in her hand a quick tug, and he follows the pull until they’re nose to nose. “Ah, yeah,” he says, blinking down at her.

“And then dinner?”

“Yeah.” 

She makes a surprisingly serious face back at him, before nodding. “Right.” When he makes to move towards his closet, she lets him. “Does that count as a second date?”

Enjolras slips his shoes off and sets them neatly in the closet next to the dress shoes, chucking his socks into the laundry basket. “Does what count as a second date?”

“And you’re the head of Mock Trial,” Cosette says, eyes rolling. “Does dinner count as a second date?”

“Um,” Enjolras says. “We didn’t really talk about it?” That’s not exactly true, and he knows it; he can already feel the flush settling up high on his cheeks when he thinks about the payment for the dates. He licks his lips, cliché and terribly obvious, and swears he can taste the hint of Grantaire’s lips. “Probably, though?”

“Oh my god,” Cosette says. “Enjolras, was this a _sexy_ shower?”

“What--no!” Enjolras shrieks, and Cosette slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Shh,” she admonishes. “I only got Papa to go to bed early by allowing him to voice his worst fears about the things Grantaire could have done to you. Which, apparently, weren’t that far off if the rather lovely shade of your cheeks is anything to go by.”

Enjolras wrenches his mouth away from her hand and stumbles a few steps backwards. “He didn’t do anything to me!” he hisses. “And I’d like to go to sleep, if you don’t mind!”

Cosette raises both of her hands. “Touchy, touchy,” she says. “I hope you’re in a better mood when Marius comes to pick me up tomorrow.”

Enjolras sighs. “Right,” he says. “Did you guys end up picking a movie?”

Cosette shakes her head, but looks no less gleeful. “We’re going to pick one when we get there,” she says. “I’ve never done that before.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Sounds fun.” He yawns.

Cosette seems to finally see him and the strain around his eyes. “Oh,” she says. “Bed. I’ll just--” she backs out of his room and around the corner.

Enjolras watches her go with a half smile.

A few moments later, she comes racing back in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers, and hurries back the way she came.

Enjolras’ resulting smile is nothing more than a subtle angle to his lips, but it is no less blinding. He’s still grinning when he heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth a few moments later, and by the time he’s ready to head back to his room, his cheeks are starting to hurt.

Valjean is standing outside the bathroom just staring at him when he emerges. The man visibly starts, before giving him a questioning onceover.

“Yes?” says Enjolras, still smiling.

Valjean just stares harder. “How was your date?” he asks.

“Good,” Enjolras says slowly. “We did paintball.”

Valjean hums.

“And, ah, had dinner after--sorry that I didn’t see your voicemails. Cosette said you were worried Grantaire had murdered me or something.”

His father waves a hand, but the action is strained. “As long as you had fun,” he says.

Enjolras laughs. “That’s one word for it,” he says. “Dinner was...nice, actually.” He shoots Valjean a quick look. “Grantaire’s actually a member of Mock Trial? He has some really interesting perspectives. You’d like him, probably,” he adds.

Valjean gives him a long, considering look. “Hmm,” he says. “Bring him to dinner sometime,” he adds as he turns to head back toward his room.

Enjolras is left gaping after him, stunned, and walks back to his own room in somewhat of a daze.

\--

“Right, so,” says Courfeyrac. He’s paying careful attention to stay as still as possible as Jehan slowly inks a poem into the skin of his right arm. “Not only has the guy had the pleasure of making out with you three times--”

“It wasn’t making out,” Enjolras is quick to interject.

Courfeyrac ignores him. “But you have also used his shower, seen him naked, had dinner with him--in this fine establishment, I might add--” He goes to lift both arms in a sweeping gesture at the Musain, and Musichetta looks up from where she’s been cleaning a table to look at him. Courfeyrac smiles back at her, and she rolls her eyes; Enjolras really is quite fond of her.

Jehan makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat when his makeshift canvas is torn away from him, and turns accusing eyes on Enjolras. “Arm,” he says.

Enjolras sighs, but rolls up his right sleeve, and gives his right arm over. The felt tip of Jehan’s sharpie doesn’t bother him so much, per se, as much as faintly tickle when it reaches the inside of his elbow, but he twitches regardless; Jehan frowns at him, and he dips his head, apologetic. “You were saying?” he says to Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac looks up from where he’s been reading the beginnings of Jehan’s poetry to grin at him. “Right, where was I?”

“Dinner,” Enjolras says dryly, as Combeferre returns from his trip the bathroom. He nudges Courfeyrac aside silently and settles back down to continue looking over Enjolras’ closing statement with pen in hand. He’s got another red pen tucked behind one ear, and Enjolras would wonder if he noticed, if not for the way he neatly leans out of the way when Courfeyrac goes to swipe it.

“What about dinner?” Combeferre reads a line, and very efficiently crosses out a word. “You sound too assertive here,” he says. “Sympathy is our best bet.”

Enjolras runs over his speech in his head. “Right,” he says, nodding.

“We were talking about dinner because Enjolras and Grantaire did dinner together,” Courfeyrac says, sounding far more pleased with himself than he has any right to. Enjolras manages to turn a glare on him while still staying completely still. Jehan looks pleased.

“Ah,” says Combeferre. “How was that, then?”

“Yes, how was that, dear _Apollo_?” Courfeyrac repeats, gleefully. Enjolras is saved the trouble of moving when Combeferre very carefully thwacks the back of his head. “Ow.”

Combeferre sighs. “The rest of the piece is good,” he says, tapping the bottom of the papers on their table and letting them fall into order. “But it’s lacking something.”

Enjolras frowns. “We need to get it definite for the next meeting so everyone can be as up to date as possible.”

Courfeyrac snorts. “We weren't the ones who made the opposite side cry during the semi-finals," he says. “And you don't need the same amount of time as everyone else. Tell me you don’t have it down right this instant.”

Enjolras ignores him in favor of watching Jehan’s careful writing work its way up his arm. He thinks its Shakespeare, but it’s definitely not in English. “Are you translating the greats again?” he asks quietly.

Jehan gives him a blinding smile, but doesn’t say anything in response. Enjolras’ own lips twitch, but he too remains silent.

“That should not be cute,” says Courfeyrac. “You two should not be cute. Enjolras, I don’t know what dating has done to you but you need to stop flirting with our friends; I’m not sure my heart can take it. And that’s not even thinking about _Grantaire’s_ feeling--Ow!”

“Stop talking,” says Combeferre. From the wounded look Courfeyrac throws him, Enjolras would guess that he’s just kicked him under the table. “You’re distracting him from our very important business.”

Courfeyrac crosses his arms protectively across his chest. Combeferre lowers his paper carefully and stares back at him with raised eyebrows. Courfeyrac very wisely starts to close his mouth and is further saved by the door to the cafe opening with a rush of cool air.

“Eponine!” says Musichetta, brightly. “You’re here early.”

Cosette’s friend waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah,” she says, voice carrying. “The world isn’t ending, or anything. I just figured a certain someone would be holding meetings here.”

“Ah.” Musichetta inclines her head towards Enjolras and his friends, who immediately feign disinterest.

“You read my mind,” says Eponine, still loudly, and makes her way over towards their table.

“Eponine?” Enjolras starts to say when she comes to stand in front of him. “What are you--”

Eponine doesn’t let him finish. “Hello, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan.” She smiles sweetly at all of them in turn before glaring down at Enjolras. “Enjolras,” she says, dragging a chair from a neighboring table over to their table with a horrible screeching noise. “What did you do?” She settles into the chair and crosses both of her arms.

Enjolras blinks back at her. “Me?” he says. He can’t really move with his arm on the table, but he leans back as far as he can; Eponine is a force to be reckoned with when angry, and once again Enjolras is glad that she’s usually on Cosette’s side.

“Oh, don’t even try to give me that oblivious face,” she snaps. “I happen to know for a fact that Cosette is out on a date with _Marius Pontmercy_. Who is a junior, I might add.”

Enjolras feels his shoulders start to raise and forces them down. “Cosette likes him,” he says, a little defensively. “And he seems nice enough. Also, you’re a junior too.”

“Irrelevant,” says Eponine. “I need details.”

“Ah, come on, Eponine,” Courfeyrac says. “Aren’t you and Marius childhood friends? You know he couldn’t hurt a fly.”

Enjolras turns to look at Courfeyrac. “And you told me that you didn’t know him,” he says. His friend smiles innocently back.

“Stop that,” says Combeferre. “You look like some kind of pervert.”

Eponine snorts. “They’d be inseparable if it weren’t for Marius’ multiple jobs,” she says, reaching out to pat Courfeyrac sternly on the back.

“He works?” says Combeferre. Enjolras shoots him a look. “What?” he says. “I’m allowed to be interested in your sister’s love life.”

Enjolras considers that for a moment, before turning back to Eponine.

“At the library,” she explains. “He’s terrible at it, but he’s so well intentioned that no one’s willing to fire him.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to do with this information.

“But enough about Marius,” says Eponine. “I’m much more interested in how Cosette got your crazy dad to let her date him.”

“Enjolras went on a date,” says Courfeyrac, gleefully rejoining the conversation.

Enjolras shoots him a dark look. “You are lucky I am playing canvas,” he says. Jehan jabs the pen into his skin a little harder than necessary and he amends, “Willingly, I might add.” The pen resumes it’s almost soothing loops.

“Date?” Eponine says. “Our great leader himself?”

“Cosette was able to convince our father that if I were to date, she could too,” Enjolras snaps. “And so I am. It’s really not all that complicated.”

Eponine snickers. “Is that why you asked me out?” she says.

Combeferre makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like he’s choking on his own breath, and she pats him half-heartedly on the back.

Enjolras refuses to flush. “Yes,” he says simply. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s cool.” Eponine leans forward and rests her chin on her palm. “So who’d you ask out?”

“Grantaire,” says Combeferre. “They had freshman art together.”

“They did a whole lot more than that,” says Courfeyrac.

Enjolras considers putting his head in his hands. “Please shut up?” he says.

Courfeyrac snorts. “Ah, come on, you can’t spill information like that and not have us discuss it.”

Enjolras glares at him. “Just because I don’t go around flirting with anything with two legs doesn’t mean I’m some blushing virgin,” he says. And then, appallingly, he blushes.

“Oh my god,” says Eponine.

“Shut up,” says Enjolras. “And before you say anything, it was not making out.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Eponine.

“Can you stop saying that?” says Enjolras at the same time Courfeyrac says, “It was totally making out.”

Enjolras gives up and puts his head in his arms. Jehan lifts his pen away neatly and pats him on the head. If his hand gets tangled in the mess of curls at the back of Enjolras’ skull, and if Enjolras ends up pressing back into that impromptu caress, none of their friends mention anything.

“It wasn’t making out,” he says. “Not the first time, at least.”

Courfeyrac’s voice is suddenly right next to his ear. “What was that?” he says, and the sudden volume makes Enjolras twitch.

“Shh,” Jehan scolds, resuming what even Enjolras has to admit is petting.

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac says, still right next to his ear, but softer.

“I said,” Enjolras says, turning his head so that Courfeyrac’s face comes into startling focus. “The first time wasn’t making out. I’m not sure about the other two times.”

“Wait, what?” says Eponine. “First time? Other two times? How many times are we talking here?”

“Three,” Enjolras sighs, not moving his head. Jehan starts humming under his breath. It’s soothing.

“Three,” Eponine repeats. “And how many dates have you had?”

“Two,” Enjolras replies.

“Two.” Eponine narrows her eyes. “I wasn’t aware you even _knew_ Grantaire,” she says accusingly.

Enjolras lifts his head free of Jehan. “We had freshman art?” he says, ignoring the way Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, no,” says Eponine. “I know for a fact that you had no idea he was even in that class.”

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth. “You do?” he says. “I mean, that’s not true.”

Eponine doesn’t look impressed.

Combeferre looks at Enjolras for a long while.

“Look, it’s not like he didn’t know what he was getting into when he agreed,” Enjolras snaps.

“Agreed to what, exactly?” says Combeferre.

“What he was getting into?” says Eponine. She crosses and uncrosses her legs under the table and stares him down. Enjolras closes his eyes.

“I might have told him I’d pay him,” he says, quietly.

“You might have told him you’d _what?_ ” Eponine says, her voice going deadly soft at the end.

“Look, it’s not like it’s that big of a deal!” Enjolras says sharply. “He could have said no!”

“He could have said--” Eponine breaks off with a short laugh. “You really are an asshole,” she says and gets to her feet. “No, don’t talk to me.” Combeferre looks like he wants to follow her, but at her words he freezes. “You let him do this.”

“I don’t see how it’s such a big problem,” Enjolras grumbles under his breath, but that’s a lie. His stomach has been slowly turning itself in knots ever since Grantaire had turned to him, with a brilliant smile, at the table two to the right of the table they’re sitting at now, and said, grinning, ‘I am wild.’ Enjolras can’t even remember what that had been a response to, only the too-blue glow of his eyes and the-too deep circles under his eyes.

He closes his own eyes and sighs, long and hard. When he opens them again, Combeferre is giving him a very hard look again. “You don’t believe that,” he says.

Enjolras doesn’t even bother lying. “No,” he agrees.

“Then fix it,” Combeferre says matter of factly.

“I don’t know _how_ ,” Enjolras tries not to say, but ends up saying anyway.

There’s an uncomfortable silence as Combeferre digests that, before Eponine comes sweeping back out from behind the bar wearing an apron. She collects their empty cups silently, barely even looking at Enjolras. But before she leaves, she stops, and her shoulders seem to sink as she visibly deflates. “He likes you a lot,” she says, quietly, and by the time Enjolras realizes that he’s not sure if he’s heard right, she’s already across the room taking orders.

He stares after her for a long moment. “He had a drawing of me on his wall,” he says, also quiet. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Courfeyrac shoot Combeferre a sharp look.

“Fix it,” Combeferre repeats, equally softly, and for once Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything else in return.

They end up sitting there silently for the rest of the afternoon working on papers, and when her shift ends, Eponine ends up joining them, where she steals Enjolras’ closing from him and takes it to pieces with a single-handed tenacity that Enjolras has to work very hard to convince himself does not remind him of Grantaire.

\--

“Again,” says Eponine. Eponine and Combeferre have taken up residence on one side of the table, facing Enjolras. Eponine’s been doing most of the quizzing, but Combeferre has not needed any prompting to help her with the semantics of the law. It’s been two hours, and Enjolras is ready to tear his hair out.

“You’re not helping,” he says finally, and Courfeyrac makes an agreeing noise. He’s face-down across the table playing canvas to both Jehan and, apparently, the man of the hour. Grantaire sits across from Enjolras, holding a red ink pen and scribbling onto Courfeyrac’s exposed skin. Enjolras blinks. “When did you get here?” he says, and somehow manages to sound far more accusing than he intends.

Grantaire just raises an eyebrow. “ _‘May it please the court,’_ ” he quotes seriously, before ruining the effect by grinning.

“That far back?”

Grantaire schools his expression into something that vaguely resembles innocence.

Enjolras glares at him. “I’d have noticed you,” he says. “And I’ve probably said that a good ten times now.”

“Twenty, actually,” Courfeyrac says from his place across the table. “Also, R, that tickles.”

“The most recent time, then,” Grantaire amends, at the same time Enjolras inquires, “R?”

“Nickname,” Grantaire replies. He starts drawing what looks suspiciously like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus on the back of Courfeyrac’s right forearm.

Enjolras has to think very hard to find his train of thought when Eponine barks, “Again!” at him.

“Eponine!” Courfeyrac complains. “It’s been hours.”

“He’s still not there with it,” says Eponine. “No offense.”

Enjolras shrugs. “I’m just having trouble getting into the defense’s side, is all,” he says.

Grantaire makes a humming noise and finishes Courfeyrac’s masterpiece. “You know what you need?” he says. He comes to stand behind Enjolras, who ends up leaning back in his seat to stare up at him. He looks no less attractive upside down, and really, that shouldn’t be allowed.

“What?”

“A break.” Grantaire reaches out to stroke one of Enjolras’ curls out of his eyes absently. “Preferably with ice cream.”

Enjolras blinks up at Grantaire--once when he’s still leaning backwards, and once again when he’s righted himself. “Ice cream?” he says.

“Ice cream,” Grantaire repeats.

“Ice cream?” says Courfeyrac, lifting his head. “I want ice cream.” Eponine steps on his foot. “Ow!”

Enjolras ignores them both. “Ice cream,” he says again. “Okay.”

Eponine makes a strangled noise, but Grantaire’s smile is absolutely captivating and Enjolras cannot look away. “Okay?”

Enjolras shakes himself. “Yeah,” he says. “Ah, where?”

Grantaire purses his lips. “I know a place,” he says. “It’s just a walk from here, actually.” He runs a hand through his hair awkwardly, probably to try to tame it; he only succeeds in making his curls stick out even more. Enjolras could stare at him for years.

“Cool,” he manages. “It’s a date.”

Grantaire’s smile slips, but he recovers quickly enough. “Right, of course, yeah,” he says, and leans down so that he’s practically looming over Enjolras. “I suppose I’d be better off collecting my payment now, mm?”

Enjolras has only a split second for that to process before Grantaire is leaning down even further and kissing him again.

Courfeyrac makes a horrible high pitched noise before being hushed collectively by their group of friends. “See,” he says, sounding muffled. “Making out.”

Enjolras belatedly considers wrestling a hand free to flip him off, but then Grantaire’s tongue finds his own and he stops thinking period. “Mmm,” he ends up saying, when Grantaire gives his lower lip one last swipe with his tongue and pulls away.

“So,” says Grantaire, clearing his throat. “Ice cream?”

Enjolras gets to his feet and gathers up his papers. “See you guys tomorrow?” he says, refusing to look away. Courfeyrac has an extremely smug look on his face; Eponine’s hand is still covering his mouth.

“Ah, no,” says Combeferre. “We’re your ride, remember?”

Enjolras sighs. “Right,” he says. “Cosette has the car.” He makes a face, but follows Grantaire up past Eponine. She turns her head to look at Grantaire, and he stops to grin back at her, so Enjolras reaches the door first. He pauses in front of it, waiting.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire says, quietly in response to something Eponine whispers in his ear. He tugs on a strand of her hair. She pulls her hand away from Courfeyrac’s lips to smack him away from it. Combeferre, Enjolras notes, smirks a little. Grantaire has turned back to him, and is smiling. “Shall we?”

Enjolras gives his friends one last wave. “Bye,” he says.

“Yeah, bye!” Courfeyrac shouts back.

“Have fun!” Combeferre agrees.

Grantaire smirks, and gives Enjolras an appraising once-over at the door before leading the way out of the cafe. He stops just outside the door and stares up at the sky. “Déjà vu,” he says, and, when Enjolras turns around to stare at him, “No?” Enjolras just keeps staring at him. “We were here only just last night, and granted it was sort of darker and you much less put together but, really, Enjolras--”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, grabs him by the arm and starts hauling him down the sidewalk. They get a few feet before he realizes that Grantaire has stopped speaking and is just staring down at their joined hands with an odd smile on his face. “What?”

“We’re going the wrong way.” Grantaire lifts his free hand to point back the way they came.

Enjolras snickers, and tries very hard not to laugh. “Right,” he says, not letting go of Grantaire’s hand. “You lead this time?”

Grantaire wiggles his fingers around so that he can take hold of Enjolras’ hand and properly intertwine their fingers. “Will do,” he says. “Onwards.”

And then, like the complete idiot he is, he swings their arms forwards and starts marching Enjolras down the sidewalk. They go laughing past the cafe again--Combeferre and Eponine both notice them, but very kindly do not point them out to Courfeyrac, who is once again draped across the table--and down the street until they reach the ice cream parlor.

“I’ve never known this was here,” Enjolras says. “And we have our meetings here every weekend.”

Grantaire gives him a funny look. “I’m pretty sure that I’ve heard Eponine mention you guys going out for ice cream after,” he says. “But, I mean, it could have been just her and Combeferre. Ice cream is one of those dating things, you know?”

Enjolras blinks. “Eponine?” he says. “Combeferre? Dating things?”

Grantaire stares at him with an amused smile on his face. “You’re not very observant, are you?” he says.

Enjolras glares at him. “I’ll have you know that I’m extremely observant,” he says stiffly, and walks into the store. He can hear Grantaire muttering something behind him, but he ignores him in favor of making a note to find Combeferre before school tomorrow. He pulls out his phone and debates sending him a text.

“What are you doing?” says Grantaire, appearing at his side.

Enjolras jumps.

Grantaire grins. “Sorry.”

He rolls his eyes. “You going to order?” he says.

Grantaire follows his eyes back towards the display of flavors. “Nah,” he says. “You go first.”

Enjolras gives him a long look, but does as told, striding up to the counter. “One vanilla soft serve in a cake cone, please,” he says pleasantly, smiling at the cashier. He pulls out the designated amount of money and waits.

“Vanilla,” says Grantaire, from right behind his left ear.

“Would you stop that!” Enjolras snaps, flushing bright red and turning to look at him. Grantaire breathes once more against the back of his neck, but doesn’t step away.

“Oops,” he says.

“Yeah, oops,” Enjolras grumbles, taking his ice cream with a slightly more forced smile.

Grantaire watches him with amusement. “Vanilla,” he says again.

“Yeah?” Enjolras takes a good long lick from his cone and stares back at him with one eyebrow raised.

Grantaire’s eyes track the movement and he stays silent. “I think I know why you’ve never heard of this place,” he says finally. “None of your friends want to be seen with you.”

Enjolras blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says.

“Just vanilla?” Grantaire steps up to the counter and rattles off his desired combination of flavors and nuts and sprinkles that leaves Enjolras’ head spinning. The cashier, to her credit, just takes it in stride.

“Cup or cone?” she manages.

“Cone,” Grantaire says sweetly. He turns back to Enjolras. “It’s the most common flavor, Enjolras,” he says. “And there’s a reason people complain about their sex lives with it,” he adds, and Enjolras is too distracted by the mention of his name and the word ‘sex’ to comment on the implications of that statement.

He watches Grantaire get his own ice cream, blankly taking it all in. Grantaire has a conversation with the cashier that ends with him learning her name, age, favorite color, and the name of her dog. Enjolras can only stare, and hope that his face doesn’t look too worrying.

Grantaire comes over to stand next to him with his own cone, and brings it up to his lips to take a massive bite out of the ice cream at the top.

Enjolras snaps out of it. “Did you just chew your ice cream?” he says.

Grantaire smiles at him and keeps chewing. “Mhmm,” he says. “It’s very good, you should try it.”

Enjolras looks down at the odd combination of colors with one eyebrow raised. “No thanks,” he says dryly.

“Your loss,” says Grantaire. He swallows another bite, and reaches out to stroke one finger along Enjolras’ eyebrow.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras says, quietly, watching Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire’s fingers are callused and worn, and Enjolras shivers when the pad of his thumb drags along his cheekbone. “Careful, Apollo,” he says. “Your face might stay like that.”

Enjolras tips his head away from Grantaire’s probing fingers. “Shut up,” he says, and then wipes a hand at his eyebrows angrily. “I don’t do it that often.”

Grantaire raises his own eyebrow airily, and only stops when Enjolras reaches for him.

“Shut up,” he repeats, but he’s laughing, even as Grantaire sidesteps him neatly and they end up chasing each other in loose circles inside the store.

Grantaire walks him back to Musain, still smiling, and kisses him lightly on the cheek as a goodbye.

“There,” he says. “Debt settled.”

The smile left on Enjolras’ face is probably more than a little embarrassing, but he doesn’t care. He watches Grantaire head off towards his motorcycle and tries to feel like he’s not about to float away.

“Hold on, Grantaire!” he shouts, suddenly, remembering.

Grantaire turns back to him.

“I’m supposed to invite you to family dinner sometime!” Enjolras calls.

Grantaire blinks. “Text me!” he says.

“I don’t have your number!” Enjolras shouts back, and Grantaire looks completely taken aback for a second.

“Right,” he says, jogging back to stand in front of Enjolras. “You don’t.” He pulls out a black sharpie from his pocket with a grin. “Jehan,” he says in lieu of explanation when Enjolras tilts his head at him. “Give me your arm.”

Enjolras gives him the arm Jehan had been writing on without thinking twice.

“Much Ado About Nothing,” says Grantaire, eyes darting across the marked skin. His lips quirk.

“Jehan,” Enjolras manages.

Grantaire licks his lips. “ _‘Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart un-kissed,_ ’” he translates, voice going just a touch husky.

Enjolras stares at him blankly, heart thumping loudly in his chest; Grantaire doesn’t look away from his arm, simply tilts it to the side so that he can scrawl his number onto the bare skin.

“There,” he says. “Now you do.”

Enjolras pulls out his phone and sends a quick text off to the number burning its way up his arm. Grantaire smirks. “I’ll text you the details,” Enjolras says, shaking, and trying in vain to regain his composure. “Yeah?” That last question is far too hesitant for his liking, and he winces.

Grantaire’s smirk grows. “You do that,” he says.

Enjolras watches him get back onto the motorcycle and drive off. “He speaks French,” he says, when both Combeferre and Courfeyrac turn up at his side. Combeferre has his keys out. “Also, he ordered a type of ice cream I’ve never heard of.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “What’d you get?” he says. “Vanilla?”

“Shut up.” Enjolras takes the keys from Combeferre, who has the good graces to have them held out to him. “I’m driving.”

“Aw, come on,” Courfeyrac complains, following. “I promise not to deliberately court danger!”

“That you need to specify that,” says Combeferre, dryly. “Speaks to why you will never be driving my car again.” He reaches the car first. “Shotgun.”

“Technically, it wasn’t your car,” Courfeyrac says, pulling open the backseat door. “Technically, it was your mother’s car.”

Enjolras scoffs. “Technically,” he says, getting into the driver’s seat and pulling the door shut. “It doesn’t matter since you totaled the car.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Courfeyrac, and Enjolras doesn’t even deem that worthy of a response as he back them out of the parking space.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from Much Ado About Nothing (5.2 50-52) Lines are the ones in the Complete Pelican Shakespeare, New Pelican Text. 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/)!


	4. I hate it when you’re late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still sickly, but it’s coughing not fever, so I can write again! I hope you all enjoy the dinner party from hell, and this little look into the wonder that is the Enjolras/Cosette/Valjean family. 
> 
> Betaed, of course, by kat and Bob. All other mistakes are my own.

**4\. I hate it when you’re late.**

\--

Enjolras wants to wait until the last possible moment to text Grantaire, but in the end he can’t bring himself to. His phone is tucked into his front pocket, and he finds himself reaching for it on his way into the house. Of course, before he can so much as move, Valjean looks up from where he’s been reading the newspaper on one of the couches, to lower his glasses onto his nose and stare at him. Enjolras wonder, briefly, if his father is doing this on purpose.

“You were seeing that boy again,” says Valjean, evenly. It’s not a question.

Cosette, who had been passing through the living room on her way to the trashcan with an empty yogurt cup in her hand, freezes with a gleeful expression on her face.

Enjolras’ jaw snaps shut. “Which one?” he manages. “I see a lot of boys, Dad, as I am friends with lots of boys.”

Cosette chokes on a laugh. Valjean’s eyes narrow. “That boy,” he repeats. “The one you’ve been dating.” He says the latter with an air of disdain that makes Enjolras’ own eyes narrow.

Cosette, as if sensing the growing hostility in the air, very quickly joins the conversation. “His name is Grantaire, Papa,” she says. “And he’s coming to dinner with us on Monday, yes?”

Enjolras isn’t sure whether to be angry at her or grateful.

“That soon...” Valjean says, and trails off.

“I thought?” says Cosette. “At least, Marius wanted to come for dinner, also, and I told him Monday would work?”

Valjean seems to steel himself. “Right,” he says. “Monday it is.” He gives Enjolras one last considering look before nodding and shuffling off into the kitchen.

Enjolras watches him blankly. “I hate you,” he says to Cosette.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, grinning.

“So, Marius wants to come for dinner?”

Cosette pulls out her phone and fires off a quick text. There’s about a split-second break before her phone dings again. She flicks her fingers across the screen with an equal amount of speed. “Now he does,” she says. Her nails, Enjolras notices, are painted a very pretty pink.

“I hate you,” Enjolras repeats.

“You love me!” Cosette sing songs, continuing on her way to the kitchen. “Now go text your beau! Or actually, call him.” She breaks off to throw her yogurt away. “You’re probably going to have to debrief him about Papa, and that could take years.”

Enjolras shudders. “Years,” he agrees, and heads up the stairs with his phone already out and in his palm.

“Hello?” says Grantaire, when Enjolras reaches the top of the stairs. He hadn’t actually expected him to answer, so he spends a few minutes not saying anything. “Enjolras?” Grantaire says tentatively. “Have I forgotten something? It’s not even been an hour.”

There’s a rustle of movement, and Cosette comes walking in carrying her laptop. She has Marius on Skype, and they both pause to wave. Enjolras makes an obscene gesture in her direction, and the last thing he hears her say before she disappears into her room is, “No, Marius, it’s alright. Don’t kill Enjolras. I’m perfectly capable of making him suffer myself!” She ends up shouting the last half of that sentence.

Enjolras watches her get up to shut the door with what is probably a deer in the headlights look in his eyes. Cosette shuts the door with a sweet little smile.

“Was that your sister?” says Grantaire. Enjolras startles, having almost forgotten about the phone at his ear, and hurries into his room.

“What?” he says. “I mean, yes?” He shuts his door with a near silent bang.

“Enjolras!” shouts Valjean. “Cosette! What have we said about doors?”

Enjolras actually jumps.

“Keep them open!” Cosette shouts back, and when he pokes his head out of his now open door, she’s there, rolling her eyes. “How the fuck does he always know?” she says.

“Language!”

Enjolras quirks an eyebrow. “Dad,” he calls back. “I think putting in college applications makes me old enough to be alone in my room.”

There is a brief silence.

“Fine.” Valjean pokes his head out of his own bedroom and looks at the two of them. “Goodnight.”

He leaves them standing awkwardly in their respectively doorways.

“Was that your father?” says Grantaire from Enjolras’ ear.

This time, Enjolras does drop the phone. “Yes,” he says finally when he’s retrieved it. “He’s actually why I’m calling you? Cosette somehow got him to agree to family dinner with you and Marius on Monday.”

There’s a pause.

“Does that work for you?” Enjolras says, unsure if he wants it to be one way or the other.

“I have an art class on Mondays,” Grantaire says. “I can probably come afterwards though. Around seven?”

Enjolras lets out a breath. “You’re a life-saver,” he says. “I’m not sure if my dad would let Marius come if you weren’t there, and Cosette can be...abrasive.”

“She sounds lovely,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras’ heart thumps.

“She is,” he manages. “Art class?”

There’s a rustling noise as Grantaire resituates the phone; his voice is suddenly much clearer and Enjolras nearly jumps. He settles into the center of his bed and folds his legs underneath him. “Yeah,” Grantaire says. “Figure drawing. We’re kind of in crunch time with portfolios and all.”

Enjolras nods. “Ah.” He rocks back and forth a bit and goes flopping back against the pillows. “I had fun today.”

Grantaire makes an odd, strangled noise. “You don’t have to do this,” he says softly. “I’ll come on Monday.”

Enjolras sits up, frowning. “Do what?” he says. “Can’t I just talk to you? Isn’t that what people who are dating do?”

Grantaire makes this barking laughing noise. It makes Enjolras’ chest hurt. “Yeah,” Grantaire says gruffly. “It is.”

Enjolras leans back against his pillows slowly. “But...we’re not, are we.” he says quietly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Grantaire. His voice sounds strange.

Enjolras raises one hand up towards the ceiling and spreads his fingers, tilting them this way and that. “I’ve never done this before, is all,” he says.

“Which part?” asks Grantaire. “The paying for dates, part? Because I should hope not--pretty sure that the next step after that is prostitution.”

Enjolras nearly chokes on his next sentence. “Oh my god stop that,” he gets out. “My dad could hear you.”

“And?”

“He might actually kill you on Monday.”

Grantaire makes a noncommittal noise, seeming entirely unconcerned. “I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” he says. “After all, we both love you.”

Enjolras laughs, a bit nervously, because he feels like he’s supposed to. But then Grantaire doesn’t really join in, and he ends up awkwardly staring at his hand again. He very quickly puts it down. “No, but, what you were saying before.” He purses his lips, considering. “I’ve never done any of it, really. Dating in general, I mean.”

Grantaire makes a shocked noise. “Really?” he says. “I’d have thought people would have been throwing themselves at you from the moment you hit puberty.”

“I’ll have you know they did,” Enjolras says coolly, but he’s anything but composed. “I just never reciprocated.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire. “I mean, I sort of got that vibe from you.”

Enjolras blinks. “You did?” he says. “In Art?”

Something about Grantaire’s voice makes Enjolras think he’s smiling. “For starters, you didn’t even notice that half of my work for that course was surreptitious drawings of you,” he says. “I mean...” Grantaire trails off.

Enjolras snorts. “Ah yes,” he says. “That.” He waits a moment, letting Grantaire squirm. “You didn’t think I’d be letting that go, did you?”

Grantaire makes a long drawn out sighing noise, and when he speaks, his voice sounds muffled. Enjolras wonders if he’s put him on speakerphone, and is currently burying his head in his pillow. “I don’t suppose I could say that it was a bad habit?” he says.

“I should hope you’ve broken that habit.” Enjolras finds himself smiling, and he can’t quite bring himself to care. “You’re not turning all of your models into me, are you?”

Grantaire is worryingly silent.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says.

“Yes?” Grantaire sounds strained.

Enjolras lets out a barking laugh. “I’ll expect to see them, then,” he says. “Since you’ve been drawing them from memory, after all. They might not match up.”

Grantaire mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Eponine says they’re near perfect,” but that gets lost in the sound of Valjean knocking on his door.

“Enjolras?” his father says, opening the door. “Are you going to sleep?”

Enjolras puts the phone down on his chest and glances at his clock. “Shit,” he says, and then winces when Valjean gives him a stern look. “I mean, yes?”

Valjean nods. He opens and closes his mouth a few times. “I, uh--I’m glad you had a good time today,” he says. “With Grantaire. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

He shuts the door quietly behind him and leaves Enjolras lying alone in his room, chest suddenly too tight.

“Enjolras?” says Grantaire when Enjolras finally drags the phone back up to his ear. “That your dad again?”

Enjolras makes a vague noise of confirmation.

“See,” Grantaire says quietly. “He sounds perfectly lovely.”

Enjolras manages a watery sounding laugh. “Yeah, he, um, he is.”

Grantaire’s voice is doing the almost smiling thing again. “Yeah,” he says. And then, softly, “Good night, Apollo.”

Enjolras doesn’t even twitch at the nickname. “Night, Grantaire,” he says, also quiet, and waits for Grantaire to click off before hanging up and setting the phone next to him on the bedside table.

He sheds his socks and jeans quickly, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing the bundle of clothes into the laundry basket. As he gets back into the bed, he looks down at the phone for a long moment before picking it up. _Help_ , he texts Combeferre, before turning the phone off and setting it back down on his desk, where he promptly forgets about it for the next few hours.

\--

Because he has Monday off, Enjolras doesn’t bother getting out of bed until well past noon. This is not normal for him; both Cosette and Valjean take turns waking him on the hour with concerned expressions on their faces. Around twelve, they come bearing breakfast, at which point Enjolras decides to stop feigning sleep.

“Hello,” he says, taking the piece of toast Cosette thrusts at him and taking a quick bite. It’s perfect. “What’s the occasion?”

Cosette shakes her head at him. “You’ve never slept past seven in your life,” she says. “Right, Papa?”

Valjean smiles. “Used to drive your mother mad,” he says. Enjolras waits for the ensuing subject change with tense shoulders, but it never comes. Valjean just sets a cup of coffee down on Enjolras’ bedside table.

“Right,” Enjolras says. He picks up the cup and takes a grateful sip. “Thank you?”

Valjean continues to smile at him, which is disarming, and leans forward to awkwardly pat Enjolras on the shoulder.

He watches his father leave with absolute confusion. “Cosette?” he says weakly once Valjean has left the two of them alone with Enjolras’ breakfast. His sister doesn’t look at him from her place atop his feet.

“Yeah?”

“Did that--” he breaks off. “We’re--”

“Never to speak of it again,” Cosette finishes, quickly. “Now budge over and share.”

Enjolras shifts as best he can on the bed, and Cosette settles into the empty, warm, spaces. She slips her feet under the blankets. Her toes are two sharp pin-pricks of cold against his legs, and he yelps. “How long have you been awake?” he says hoarsely. All of his attempts to flee from her feet fail.

“Hmm?” Cosette says around a bite of his toast. “Few hours?” she says. “Why?”

Enjolras shakes his head at her, and hands her the apple when she reaches for it. “No reason.”

Cosette takes large, crunching bite and then holds it front of his face. He takes his own bite with a smile. “So, what’re you wearing for dinner?” Cosette asks.

Enjolras yawns. “Not sure,” he says, and shivers a little in the air. “Could you hand me that?”

Cosette doesn’t even look up and reaches over to grab him a worn t-shirt. “I mean,” she continues. “It’s just dinner. As long as you’re wearing clothes I think you’ll be fine.” She leans in to sniff at his hair. “However, I’d recommend showering.”

Enjolras smiles wryly. “This preoccupation with my hair is getting worrying.”

Cosette snorts. “I’m not the one who uses more shampoo than is probably healthy,” she says. She snags his coffee cup from his hand. “Is this decaf?”

Enjolras blinks at her, shakes his head. “Since when do you drink coffee?”

Cosette gives the cup a considering onceover. “Since....now,” she says, taking a sip. Her nose wrinkles up, and she very quickly disentangles herself from Enjolras’ blankets. “Never mind,” she says, her voice rasping. “I lied.”

Enjolras watches her stumble about the room with an amused look on his face.

“Since never,” says Cosette. “Since never, god, Enjolras?”

He quirks an eyebrow at her.

“You are going to die young.”

He just keeps laughing at her, even as she makes a menacing gesture with both of her hands and backs out of the room. “You will rue this day, my darling brother,” she says. “Just you wait.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “What can you do to me?” he says.

His sister just _laughs_.

\--

Cosette gets saddled with cooking dinner, and Enjolras ends up joining her in the kitchen simply to challenge the gender stereotype. The ‘kiss the cook’ apron says it all, really.

“Exactly,” says Cosette. She takes the bowl of batter he hands her in her free hand. In her other, she’s holding the bottle of vanilla extract. “You’re a much better cook than I am, anyway.” She goes to pour the bottle’s contents into the bowl.

Enjolras grabs her by the hand before she can. He levels and unimpressed look on her. “What’s rule one?”

She smiles back. “Don’t touch anything unless you say.” She tugs her wrist free and sets the bottle back on the counter. “Sorry.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “It’s not exactly hard to be a better cook than you,” he says.

Cosette makes a mock hurt face. “Hey,” she says. “You wound me, dear brother.”

“Neither of you are good cooks,” says Valjean, walking into the kitchen carrying a bag of groceries. He sets them down on the counter. “I’ve made no secret of this; whoever is telling you otherwise has obviously been lying.”

“Oi,” says Cosette. “Just for that, you don’t get any of this--what is this, again?”

Enjolras raises his head. “Pound cake,” he says with dignity.

Valjean takes the bowl of batter from Cosette and gives it a quick taste. “Mm,” he says, face deadpan. He turns to Enjolras. “Don’t quit your day job.”

“You mean school?” clarifies Cosette. “You’re seriously telling Enjolras not to quit school?”

“True,” says their father.

“Yes, thank you for that,” says Enjolras. “You can make your own cake now.” He starts towards the kitchen door.

Cosette catches him by the arm. “No, wait,” she says. “Don’t leave me with him--I’m sorry, I take it back!”

Valjean makes a mildly offended noise. “Leave you with me?” he says. “Leave me with her would be more accurate.”

Enjolras exchanges a long look with Cosette. “I’ve got his arms,” she says.

“Legs,” Enjolras agrees, and lunges.

They end up emerging several minutes later, covered in flour, to shower while their father sets about actually cooking dinner.

\--

Marius shows up first, just after 7:15. He’s dressed casually in a button down shirt and slacks, but the mismatched buttons and the slightly terrified look in his eyes gives away how unnatural the look is on him. Enjolras, in his similar colored button down and pants, takes one look at him and very slowly goes back upstairs. Luckily no one else notices, because Cosette is busy dragging Marius into the house by the hand and talking a mile a minute while Valjean stands menacingly behind her.

He pulls off the shirt and pants in favor of too-tight jeans and a band t-shirt, before heaving a great sigh, and heading back downstairs.

“Hi,” says Cosette when she sees him. “You’ve met Marius.” She gives him a knowing look.

Enjolras ignores her. “Hello again,” he says, and shakes Marius’ extended hand with an amused grin.

“Hi,” the boy says, breathlessly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. From both Cosette and Courfeyrac,” he adds.

Enjolras lets go of his hand and nods slowly.

“He’s been trying to convince me to join Mock Trial,” Marius explains.

Enjolras makes a noise of interest in the back of his throat, but before he can respond, Cosette interjects.

“Don’t get him started on that,” she says. “He won’t ever stop.”

Enjolras ignores her. “Pay no attention to Cosette,” he says. “We don’t usually let her out of the basement; I’m not sure if she’s seen this much interaction in _years_.”

Cosette smacks him on the arm. “You would know,” she says sweetly.

Marius just looks between them, a bit dazed. “Um," he says. From behind them, Enjolras can hear Valjean clearing his throat.

“Right,” says Cosette. “May I take your coat, M’sieur?” She releases her grip on Marius’ arm to fake a bow in his general direction. It’s adorably exaggerated; Enjolras has to physically bite down on a smile.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” says Marius. He hands her the jacket in question, which she takes and hands to Enjolras. He stares down at it, blankly, while Cosette ushers Marius out of their living room and into the dining room.

Enjolras tightens his grip on the jacket in his hand, and goes to hang it in the closet next to the door. He can hear Cosette laughing at something Marius is saying. When he joins them in the dining room, Cosette has sat Marius down in the chair on the end across from Valjean and is sitting far too close to his side for Enjolras not to notice.

He raises an eyebrow and sits down next to her.

“No,” says Cosette. “That’s Grantaire’s seat; move over.”

Enjolras does as she asks and sighs. “He should be here soon,” he says, when it’s clear that no one else is going to try to fill the silence. “He said seven, but he had an art class, so maybe that’s keeping him?”

“Yeah,” says Cosette, but she sounds less than convinced. “I mean, it’s only been 20 minutes,” she adds, glancing at the clock. “Right, Marius?”

Marius visibly starts. ‘What? I mean, yes?” he says. “He’s--art class?”

Enjolras nods and tries to look as reassuring as possible. Across the table, Valjean stares unblinkingly--like he’s gazing into Marius’ soul. Even Enjolras feels unsettled.

“Erm, so yeah, you never know with artists.” Marius starts off stumbling, but somehow manages to get his sentence to cooperate. “They’re always getting lost in their own worlds, yeah?”

“I never liked art,” says Valjean. It’s a complete and utter bald-faced lie; Cosette and Enjolras wisely say nothing. “I never had much time for it--what with prison,” their father continues.

“Prison?” Marius looks petrified. Enjolras can see Cosette reach under the table to grip his hand and give it a quick squeeze.

Valjean doesn’t so much as twitch. “Prison,” he agrees.

“So, Marius,” says Enjolras, before his father can continue. “You’re in Courfeyrac’s European History class?”

Cosette looks grateful.

“Yes,” says Marius. He turns away from Valjean to look at Enjolras. “I’m really enjoying it.”

Enjolras tries to smile encouragingly at him. “What other classes are you taking?”

“Ah, well,” Marius starts to explain, before Valjean interrupts.

“Courfeyrac,” he says. “Which one of your friends is that?”

Enjolras glares at him. “You know who he is,” he says, shortly. “You were just complaining about his influence last week!”

Valjean looks back at him, unimpressed.

“The one with dark, curly hair,” says Cosette, still trying to gather the reins of the conversation. “With the baby face.” She breaks off with a wince. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

“Ah,” says Valjean. “Isn’t he a senior?”

“Um,” says Cosette, suddenly horrified. “So, Grantaire?” she cries. “Shouldn’t he be here soon? Maybe you should call him?”

Enjolras gets to his feet. “That’s a good plan, actually,” he says. “I’ll just--”

“Isn’t he?” says Valjean.

Enjolras sinks back down into his chair. “Yes?” he says, and shoots an apologetic look at Cosette. She’s given up on salvaging the conversation and is instead staring their father down.

Valjean is unaffected. “And he’s in the same class as a sophomore?”

“No,” says Cosette. “Marius is a junior.”

Her sentence is met with silence. Valjean continues to gaze back at her, before his eyes very slowly make their way over to Marius’ face. “Is that so?”

“Um,” says Marius.

“Papa,” Cosette starts to say, just as the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it; that’s Grantaire,” Enjolras says, rushing. He's already up out of his seat and opening the door before anyone can say anything. “Hi,” he says when he sees that it is indeed Grantaire. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

Grantaire stares back at him with an amused glint in his eyes. “Nice to see you too,” he says. He’s dressed casually in simple t-shirt with a knit sweater tugged over it, and is wearing a hat. His hair looks like he’s spent a few minutes standing under a sink. Enjolras spends a few seconds wondering about the reasons for that before his eyes catch on the smudge of gold paint high on Grantaire’s right cheekbone. Right. Art class. He gives himself a shake.

“Come on in, I guess?”

Grantaire doesn’t budge. “What, no words of warning?” he says. “No last minute advice?” He claps a hand over his heart in mock outrage; Enjolras is very suddenly aware of the fact that he has an _Iron-Man_ band-aid wrapped around his pinkie. “I feel betrayed, Apollo.”

Enjolras stares back at him bemusedly. “You,” he starts to say, before giving up. “At least you’re not appalled?”

Grantaire blinks. “Appall--” he starts to say. “Apollo--” His eyes narrow. Enjolras manages something of an innocent grin. “That was horrible. Just for that, come here.” Grantaire reaches out with the same band-aid bearing hand to grab him by the arm and drag him out of the house. They end up standing nose to nose on the porch, Grantaire shaking his head, and Enjolras gazing up at him, feeling more than a little lost. “I feel like there has to be some sort of repercussion for a pun that horrible,” says Grantaire. He’s almost whispering.

“To be fair.” Enjolras clears his throat. “I’m not really sure you could actually call that a pun--”

“Mmhmm,” says Grantaire against his lips. He’s taken the opportunity to slide his hand down Enjolras’ bare (and suddenly freezing) arm to take hold of his hand. “Semantics.”

Enjolras makes a broken noise in the back of his throat. “Are crucial,” he manages.

“For you, maybe.” Grantaire has started nosing along his jaw, and when he reaches his ear, he inhales.

“Are you--did you just _smell_ me?” If his voice sounds more than a little high, Enjolras figures he’s justified.

“You smell like my shampoo,” explains Grantaire.

Enjolras tries to laugh and ends up half choking. “That’s because I borrowed it,” he replies, his voice strained. “Grantaire--”

“I’ve decided on your punishment,” Grantaire says, over his name.

Enjolras’ mouth snaps shut. “Oh?”

“Yep,” says Grantaire, popping the ‘p.’ “For the horrible atrocity of the phrase ‘appalled Apollo,’ I find the defendant guilty.” He pulls back briefly to regard Enjolras with amused eyes. “As penance for this crime--”

“You wouldn’t say penance,” Enjolras points out. “Also, ‘horrible atrocity’ is a little redundant, don't you think?”

Grantaire lets go of Enjolras’ hand and makes a blasé gesture with his own. “Whatever,” he says. “You can punish me later. Now for your _penance_ \--” He breaks off and narrows his eyes at Enjolras, but Enjolras himself is too busy repeating the words ‘you can punish me later’ in his head to notice. “You have to kiss me.”

Enjolras hums an affirmative in response.

“Excellent.”

“Wait, what?” Enjolras manages to say before Grantaire is kissing him. He’s far more tentative than he has any right to be, what with the number of times he’s kissed Enjolras in the past three days, and so Enjolras feels more than a little justified in grabbing him by the collar and hauling him close.

“This is new,” says Grantaire against his lips when they break apart for air.

“Shut up,” Enjolras breathes back. “You’re the one who keeps kissing me. Am I not allowed to fight back?”

Grantaire licks his lips. “You are always allowed to fight back,” he says, his voice going husky.

Enjolras swallows hard.

“In fact--” Grantaire breaks off, eyes darting around Enjolras’ shoulder and then back again. His cheeks color, ever so slightly, and Enjolras is just close enough to notice.

“Don’t mind me,” says Cosette.

Enjolras shuts his eyes. “Is everyone standing behind me?” he asks Grantaire.

“You’d think I’d leave Marius alone with Papa?” answers Cosette. She snorts. “Please. Papa went to go check on dinner, and I volunteered us to go check on you. You were, after all, taking a very long time.”

Enjolras does not want to turn around. Grantaire, by contrast, steps back and sets about disentangling Enjolras’ hands from his shirt. The paint, sadly, is still on his cheek. “You must be Cosette,” says Grantaire. He holds up a bouquet of flowers.

Enjolras blinks; it probably speaks millions about just how far under his skin Grantaire has managed to get that he hadn’t noticed them until now. “Oh you didn’t,” he says, when he realizes that not only did Grantaire actually buy Cosette flowers, but they are in fact Gladioli.

Grantaire smiles and reaches around Enjolras to present the bouquet to Cosette. “For you,” he says.

She takes them. “Um,” she says. “Thank you?” She turns them a few times in her hands. “I’m not really sure what they’re for, exactly?”

Grantaire’s eyes widen and he meets Enjolras’ frantically. Enjolras makes a face at him, equally frantic, but ultimately limited by Cosette’s presence. “Do something,” he mouths, still not turning to face his sister.

“For--Enjolras!” says Grantaire, turning to Enjolras. “But he said they weren’t that special.”

Enjolras glares at him. “I said no such thing,” he says, finally turning to face Cosette. His sister stares back at him, holding the flowers and half grinning, half frowning. Grantaire steps up close behind him and rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Not that you could say much of anything, what with your tongue--” he starts to mumble into Enjolras’ ear. Enjolras very neatly puts his elbow back into his stomach.

“I just said that they were unnecessarily, is all,” he tells Cosette.

“Right,” she says, slowly. “I’ll just go put these in water, Marius?” She turns to head back towards the kitchen with the flowers and Marius follows her.

Enjolras waits for her to vanish out of sight before letting out a deep breath. He steps back into the house and gestures for Grantaire to join him. He comes, and Enjolras pulls the door shut behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire starts to say, and Enjolras halts him by raising a hand.

“That was my fault,” he says quietly. “I should have told you she didn’t know.”

Grantaire starts shaking his head before Enjolras even finishes speaking. “I should have realized,” he says, just a touch edge of self deprecating. “Anyway, here goes nothing.” He gives Enjolras one more almost false smile, and walks off towards the dining room, saluting him as he goes.

Enjolras stares back at him, brow furrowed, for a few seconds, before Valjean’s voice drifts out to him. “So you’re an artist?” his father is saying. “I never liked art much. Didn’t have much time for it in prison.”

Enjolras makes an almost squawking noise and hurls himself into the room to hear Grantaire say, unfazed, “Oh really? What for?” as he sits down in the seat Cosette had designated for him.

Valjean looks between the two of them, between Enjolras’ deer-in-the-headlights expression and Grantaire’s deadpan, unmoving silence, and starts laughing.

Enjolras walks very slowly to the chair next to Grantaire and sinks silently into it.

Which is, of course, when Combeferre practically knocks down the door opening it with the key that Enjolras gave him two years into their friendship.

“You,” says Combeferre. Courfeyrac comes charging into the house behind him, and goes completely and utterly still. “Phone, now.”

Enjolras just puts his head in his hands, and points aimlessly towards the stairs to his room, and moments later Combeferre comes striding into the dining room. He sets the phone on the table, and makes a show of it turning on. Almost instantly, the thing starts buzzing with missed calls and missed text-messages, and finally, a rather terse message from Combeferre saying that he ‘is on his way to the house and if he finds that Enjolras’ phone has been off this whole time he will make him _wish_ for ‘help.’’

“I’m sorry for intruding,” Combeferre says politely to Valjean. He takes the seat next to Enjolras and reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. “A certain someone turned off his phone, is all, and should really learn to think before sending potentially worrying text messages late at night.”

Enjolras, very slowly, looks up from the phone.

“Potentially worrying texts messages?” asks Grantaire. He waves briefly at Courfeyrac when Enjolras’ other friend takes the chair next to Combeferre. Marius and Cosette have very wisely not returned from the kitchen.

“Nothing important,” Enjolras says before Combeferre can speak. His friend tightens his grip on his shoulder until Enjolras winces.

“No,” he says, smiling again at Valjean. “Anyway, sorry for intruding.”

“Oh, not at all,” says Valjean. “In fact, we were just talking about you. Why don’t the two of you join us?” He says the last half of that to Courfeyrac, who frowns over at Enjolras.

“Me?” he says. “Why were you talking about me?”

“Absolutely no reason at all, right Cosette?” Enjolras replies, through his teeth, as his sister makes her way back from the kitchen carrying Grantaire’s bouquet in a vase. Marius is on her heels and starts when he sees the new additions. Courfeyrac waves, and Combeferre smacks him.

“What he said,” Cosette agrees, setting down the flowers. “Now, are we ready for dinner?”

There is a chorus of ‘yes’s from the table, and Cosette and Valjean get up grab the food. Marius offers to help them with a smile. “Aren’t you glad we have that extra pound cake?” says Cosette as they pass through the doorway.

“Now, Cosette,” says Valjean. “We don’t want to kill them.”

“Right,” says Cosette, laughing.

Enjolras takes a few deep breathes and very slowly starts to lower his head onto the table. He’s startled back upright by the warm press of Grantaire’s fingers in his own, and turns his head to look at him.

Grantaire smiles back, his eyes crinkling in the corner. “You okay?” he says softly.

Enjolras feels his lips twitch. “Yeah,” he says. “It wouldn’t be family dinner without them anyway.”

Combeferre, overhearing him, finally releases his grip on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Damn right we’re family,” he says gently and shakes his head at Enjolras. “Just don’t worry us like that again, yeah?”

Enjolras looks back at him, apologetic. “Yeah, sorry,” he says, tightening his grip on Grantaire’s hand when he goes to take it away. “I promise not to forget about my phone again.”

“Good,” says Combeferre. He gets to his feet to help Cosette with setting the table. “So, this is your Marius, then?”

“Yes,” says Cosette, handing him the forks. “Are you going to be nice?”

Combeferre makes a considering noise in the back of his throat and starts laying out the silverware. “That depends,” he says. “Has Enjolras threatened you with bodily harm, yet?”

Marius’ lips curve into a small grin and he says, “No, actually.” Cosette weaves around him to go grab food.

“I don’t need to threaten you with bodily harm,” says Enjolras. “I can simply tear you to pieces verbally and leave you stumbling in a classroom.”

There is a small pause.

“I did not know you knew about that rumor,” Courfeyrac says finally. “Did anyone else know he knew about that rumor?”

“I know about all of the rumors,” Enjolras replies, sweetly. “All of them.”

“See,” says Grantaire, taking two forks for him and Enjolras both. “He doesn’t need to threaten--he can just smile at him.”

Enjolras glares at him.

“What?” He gives Enjolras’ hand a little squeeze. “I told you it was terrifying.”

“It is pretty terrifying,” puts in Cosette. She places the still steaming plate of turkey onto the table. “Also are we doing the obligatory murder you if you hurt my brother/sister speeches?” She turns to Grantaire. “Because I will murder you if you hurt him,” she says seriously, “And I will most definitely get away with it, too.”

She settles into her seat and just stares at Grantaire. He turns to look at Enjolras, who mirrors her.

“So it’s genetic,” Grantaire says, eventually. Almost like clockwork, Enjolras and Cosette crack up, dissolving into shaking laughter and breaking the tension soundly. When Valjean returns carrying even more food (seriously, how many people did he plan on serving?), he finds them all talking amongst themselves, Marius and Grantaire fitting easily into their usual banter and conversation.

Enjolras swears that, in the moments before everyone else notices him, his father is smiling. But then, when Courfeyrac spots him, his eyes harden and he goes back to staring Marius and Grantaire down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, chapter four! I'm so thrilled everyone is enjoying this. Have a little taste of my particular brand of insanity--notes from editing [here](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/50511637346/so-im-relatively-certain-i-took-the-nyquil-after).


	5. I hate it when we argue, because you always think you’re wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve reached the halfway mark! Also the beginning of the angst, sadly. Betaed this time by Kat (as always) and my dear friend [bardofrats](http://bardofrats.tumblr.com/). All other mistakes are my own.

**5\. I hate it when we argue, because you always think you’re wrong.**

\--

Most of the time, Enjolras manages to forget that the media’s depiction of gossip in schools is depressingly accurate. When he arrives at school on Tuesday and the first thing he notices is all the staring, he finds it rather hard to think otherwise.

“Fuck,” he says. “Who told?”

Cosette doesn’t even grace that with a response. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “I’m not the one who spent all weekend making out with the guy.” She leaves him standing awkwardly next to the driver’s side of the car without looking back.

“For the last time!” Enjolras shouts after her, ignoring how the staring seems to increase. “It was not making out!”

Cosette keeps walking. When Enjolras looks away, shaking his head, he meets curious eyes. He just stares back, with little movement, until one of the kids continues on his way, rattled.

Enjolras is not by any stretch of the word shy, but, generally speaking, most of the times people end up staring at him are times when he’s gone out of his way to hold their attention. This is different. This is making his skin itch and his hands sweat. It’s not like dating someone is all that dramatic, anyway. People get together and break up before class periods finish; Enjolras going on one date shouldn’t be stare-worthy. But it is, apparently, and so he tries to ignore the probing eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Enjolras!”

He cracks open an eye.

Montparnasse, surprisingly not flanked by his usual would-be-delinquents, is standing in front of him, looking incredibly smug.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Montparnasse just keeps looking back at him.

“Did you want something?”

“No.” Montparnasse leans his head back, and practically leers.

Enjolras stares back, unimpressed.

Montparnasse goes to open his mouth again, but before he can, Eponine’s voice interrupts him.

“Oi, ‘Parnasse,” she says. When Enjolras looks up, he sees her and Grantaire making their way towards them. Grantaire is carrying a helmet under one arm, and Enjolras’ eyes narrow.

“Oh, you did not,” he says, just as Grantaire comes to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” Grantaire replies, sounding amused. Eponine storms up to Montparnasse and begins to stare him down.

Enjolras glares down at the helmet.

“What?” Grantaire follows his line of sight.

“You have a car,” says Enjolras. “I know you do.”

Montparnasse makes a noise, and Enjolras glances to his side quickly, only to look away when Eponine punches him.

“I do,” says Grantaire. “Why?”

“You should use it,” says Enjolras. He turns back to Montparnasse. “So, to be clear,” he says. “You didn’t have anything to say to me?”

Montparnasse opens his mouth, but when Eponine taps her foot, he shuts it. He shakes his head.

“Good,” says Enjolras, heading for the doors. Grantaire follows him.

“Those two,” he says once they reach the doors. Enjolras holds it open for him without thinking. “They sure are something.”

“Yeah.” Their hands brush in the exchange, and Enjolras finds himself flushing. “I’m not even sure I want to know their story.”

“Whose story?” Cosette reappears at his side with Marius in tow.

“Eponine and Montparnasse?”

“Yeah, no,” says Cosette. They make their way down the hallway towards their lockers, and she ends up nodding and smiling at almost everyone they pass. Enjolras finds himself watching with an almost awed look on his face, until a less-than-savory guy makes an obscene gesture at her. Cosette doesn’t even so much as flinch, simply continues to smile sweetly at him until he passes, at which point she sticks out her foot, and sends him stumbling the next few steps onto the floor. “You have Mock Trial today, yes?”

Enjolras shakes himself out of it. “Um, yes,” he says.

“Can I have the car keys during lunch, then?” Cosette nudges Marius with her shoulder, grinning. “We’re thinking of grabbing something besides the cafeteria special.”

“We?”

“We,” says Eponine, reappearing at Enjolras’ side and taking hold of Marius’ arm. “Right?” She sounds almost hesitant, until Cosette laughs.

“Hi,” she says. “And yes, of course.”

Eponine’s smile is radiant. “Did you have a nice day off?”

Cosette rolls her eyes and stick her hands out for the keys. “Marius and Grantaire came over for dinner,” she says. “Papa was suitably terrifying.”

Enjolras hands over the keys without comment.

“I think you handled him much better than I did,” Marius adds, releasing his hold on Eponine’s arm to nod at Grantaire. Eponine wilts a little, but by the time Enjolras thinks to ask her what’s wrong, she’s back to smiling. “I think he liked you,” Marius is saying.

Cosette shakes her head. “Don’t be silly, Marius,” she says. “He liked you fine.” She gives the keys a little jingle, and turns back to Enjolras. “Catch you later.”

Enjolras watches as she heads off, followed closely by Eponine and Marius, before turning back towards his locker. He starts on the combination.

“Someone has got to get that girl a hobby,” says Grantaire, leaning obnoxiously against the locker next to Enjolras’. “That’s not Marius Pontmercy, I mean.”

Enjolras twirls the lock a few times and opens his locker with a click. “I hope you’re not talking about my sister,” he says.

Grantaire laughs, quietly. “No,” he says. “No, I just feel bad for her, is all.”

Enjolras looks up from arranging his books and backpack in the locker. “What for?” he says.

Grantaire stick his head in after him. “You are ridiculously organized,” he says. “And I may know a thing or two about being in love with unattainable people.”

Enjolras grabs his books, mindless. “Uh-huh,” he says, shutting the door. “Watch your fingers.” He does a mental count on his books and classes, and when he looks up, Grantaire is watching him oddly. “Yes?”

“For someone so incredibly observant when it comes to the things you care about, you’re awfully oblivious about matters of the heart.” He leans in close to add, “one of these days, that’s going to come back to bite you.”

Enjolras shudders. “When have I ever been oblivious about matters of the heart?” He says the last part with no small amount of distaste, and Grantaire laughs at him.

“Eponine and Combeferre, for one,” he says. “The girl may still be halfway besotted with Marius, but she’s not stupid.” He seems to take in the baffled look on Enjolras’ face, and laughs again. “Anyway,” he says. He reaches up to wind one of Enjolras’ curls around his fingers. “We’ve both got class, so I’ll catch you later.”

“Eponine and Combeferre?” Enjolras says. He tries to remember the exact phraseology Combeferre had used when turning him down, and comes up a bit blank. “Um, see you?”

Grantaire’s finger tips skim across his cheekbones before his draws his hand back and he rocks back on his heels. “Mock Trial meeting,” Grantaire agrees. “Lunch time. Lamarque’s classroom. I’ll be there.” He turns to go without a backwards glance, weaving through the still-staring students with all the ease of one wearing leather and holding a helmet.

Enjolras is left staring after him, confused. “I think I might be angry with you,” he tells Combeferre moments later when his friend shows up at his side. “In fact, I’ll probably stop talking to you after this.”

Combeferre doesn’t say anything.

“But before that, I’d just like to say you were right.”

He turns to leave, wordlessly, and gets about two steps before Combeferre speaks. “About what, might I ask?”

“About other perspectives,” Enjolras says. “They have their moments.”

Combeferre is silent for a long moment, and Enjolras finds that he can’t quite bear to leave. “About Eponine,” Combeferre says, quietly. “I would have told you if you’d asked.”

Enjolras is the one who ends up laughing, a little broken. “I never ask,” he says. “You know that.”

Combeferre takes a few steps so that he’s standing just in Enjolras’ periphery. “I do,” he says. “That’s why I’m not angry at you.”

Enjolras looks at him, confused.

“I was counting on it.” Combeferre’s whole body seems to tense, and then he’s moving, stepping past Enjolras and heading for class.

Enjolras follows him minutes later, and ends up missing more than half of the lecture due to daydreams.

Moments later, he ends up missing even more of the lecture because he spots Grantaire stalking by the door to the classroom, grinning. He tilts his head to the side, and tries to be as subtle as possible in conveying his confusion. Grantaire simply raises both of his eyebrows and gestures at him to get up.

Enjolras supposes he’s lucky that being late has forced him to sit so far back and near the door. Also, that Lamarque likes him, because his professor doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash when Enjolras gets up with the excuse of bathroom on the tip of his tongue.

Grantaire takes hold of his hand as soon as he clears the room and hauls him down the hall. “Come on,” he says, under his breath. He’s practically vibrating with excitement.

“What are we doing?” Enjolras says.

“Skipping,” Grantaire says, promptly. Enjolras goes to sink his heels into the hallway floor, but Grantaire is prepared. “Don’t do that,” he says, tugging him on with surprising strength. “Everyone’ll hear.”

Enjolras’ shoes make a faint squeaking noise, and he very quickly picks up his feet. “I’ve got twenty minutes of lecture left,” he says. “And I talk in that class. Lamarque will notice.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Please,” he says. “You could miss an entire week of class and Lamarque would let it go without so much as a question asked.”

Enjolras scowls at him. “That’s not true,” he protests.

“What did you get on your last paper?”

Enjolras refuses to meet his eyes. “An A,” he says.

“And the one before that?”

Enjolras doesn’t even deem that worthy of a response. “My books are in the classroom,” he says.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Text Combeferre,” he says.

Enjolras pauses. “I, uh,” he says. “We’re not really talking?”

Grantaire stops them short. “What?”

Enjolras doesn’t meet his eyes. “He didn’t tell me about Eponine,” he says, quietly.

Grantaire starts walking again. “What?” he says. “Enjolras, did you even ask?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I was a bit distracted trying to find a date,” he points out.

Grantaire has loosened his hold on his wrist, and his thumb is rubbing in soothing little circles against Enjolras’ pulse point. It’s unfair how distracting and calming that is. “He’s still your best friend,” Grantaire points out, voice trailing off mid-sentence.  He pulls out his own phone and taps away across the screen. “Forget it, I’ll text him for you.”

“You know Combeferre’s number?” Enjolras asks. He gives up on fighting Grantaire’s grip on his wrist and sighs. “Where are we going, anyway?”

Grantaire just smiles mischievously at him. “You’ll see,” he says. He makes a quick stop at his locker to grab the godforsaken helmet.

“Oh no,” says Enjolras, starting to fight again. The momentary slack has lulled Grantaire into enough of a sense of security that he manages to get his hand free. “I refuse to be seen in public on that thing.”

Grantaire feigns hurt. “What have you got against alternative methods of transportation?” he says.

Enjolras mouths his words back at him. “Alternative methods of-- right. You just--stop talking.”

Grantaire frowns at him. “Why--”

Enjolras slaps a hand over his mouth. “Stop talking,” he repeats.

Grantaire looks back at him with unnaturally wide eyes for a good long moment, before he seems to steel himself for something.

“Why are you looking at me like that--?” Enjolras starts to ask, before Grantaire shoves the helmet on his head, backwards, and drags him flailing down the rest of the hallway and out into the parking lot.

“Hurry, we’ll be late!” says Grantaire.

“I am going to _kill_ you!” says Enjolras.

\--

“We’re here,” says Grantaire when they finally slide to a stop. Enjolras gives up on pretending he’s not clinging to him for dear life, and lets out a deep breath.

“Yay,” he deadpans. “You going to let me take this thing off and see where here is?”

Grantaire takes a hold of his hands and pulls them so that Enjolras is doing an even better job of hugging him from behind. “Nope,” he says. “I like you like this.”

Enjolras wrestles a hand free and tugs on the helmet, managing to turn it around so that he can at least see Grantaire, tinted green and smirking. “Blind,” he says. He doesn’t even try to get his other hand back, just focuses on keeping his heart from beating out of his chest. “You like me blind.”

Grantaire snorts. “I like you breaking the rules,” he clarifies. He lets go of Enjolras’ hand and gets off the motorcycle. “It suits you.” He tugs the helmet off of Enjolras’ head, and looks at him. “Although,” he adds, grinning, “helmet hair does not.”

Enjolras reaches up to try to tame his curls, angrily. “Stop that,” he says. He gets off the motorcycle also and comes to stand next to Grantaire. Grantaire’s eyes flick up to stare at the top of his head. “Or I’ll break more than just the rules.” He finally takes in their surroundings. “The park?”

When he looks over, Grantaire is nodding. “You seemed like you could use a break.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “It’s peaceful, here,” he says. He watches Grantaire lock up his bike and helmet, wryly. “But you knew that?”

“Mm?” Grantaire comes to stand next to him, smiling. “I come here a lot to sketch and things.”

Enjolras side-eyes him. “Oh?” he says. “What of?”

Grantaire opens his mouth, only to shut it accusingly. “You’re just trying to get me to admit that I paint you,” he says. He lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his head, and then upon realizing what he just said, freezes. “Fuck.”

Enjolras smiles back at him, smugly, and resists the urge to take hold of his free hand. “Wasn’t very hard.”

“Oh, shut up, you.” Grantaire, seemingly without thinking, takes hold of his hand  and starts leading him down the winding paths.

Enjolras follows him, trying very hard not to grin like an idiot. “So where are you taking me?” he asks.

Grantaire smiles. “You’ll see.” They curve left abruptly and leave the designated path in favor of the quiet of the trees and occasional birds. Enjolras watches how Grantaire carefully picks his way through the underbrush, and tries very hard not to look at their hands.

“Do you go here a lot?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Not really,” he says. “I’m going on a hiking trip next week, though. It doesn’t hurt to practice.” He missteps and skids a bit, but Enjolras tightens his grip on their hands, and holds him upright.

“Practice,” he says. “You should probably do more.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Or I could just take you,” he points out, walking again. Enjolras picks his way after him, grinning a little to himself. He gets about two steps before he walks into a spider-web and ends up sputtering for a few moments while Grantaire laughs. “You’re rather lacking on the survival front, but you make a decent walking stick.”

Enjolras looks back over his shoulder at Grantaire and glares. “If this is your not-so-subtle way of asking me to come hiking with you, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

Grantaire’s cheeks abruptly go pink, and he looks away. “I, uh,” he says, breaking off. He runs a hand through his hair again, and it gets stuck at the back of his neck. “This way.”

Enjolras watches him turn to continue through the underbrush for a second or two, before following. The silence starts to feel a little oppressive, and he hurries to say something to break it. “Out of curiosity, if I was a walking stick, what sort of wood would I be made out of?”

There is an awkward moment of silence where Enjolras stares pointedly at the ground, as if doing so will get it to swallow him whole.

Grantaire makes a sound like he’s choking. Enjolras ignores the way his face is burning, and reaches out to catch his hand again, just in case. He gives his fingers a little squeeze, and grins down at him. “Um,” says Grantaire. “Well, probably something incredibly upper-crust?”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Upper-crust,” he says.

“Like, whatever shit rich people use to make pianos.”

“Pianos.”

“I want to say Mahogany, but that seems like a bit much for a walking stick.”

“Mahogany.”

“But, I mean, that would about sum up your general approach to most things, would it not?”

Enjolras stares at him, blankly, and then punches him in the shoulder. “It does not,” he says. His ears are flushing again. He really should work on that. “Can we just go?”

“Hey, you started it,” Grantaire points out, rubbing at his shoulder. “But, um, yeah, we’re here.”

He stops them on the ridge of a hill, a clean cropping of pretty green grass and dandelions. They must be near a highway, because Enjolras can hear the rush of cars passing. There’s something incredibly sad in that, and he finds himself frowning.

Grantaire watches his face, and his own seems to fall. “Do you not like it?”

Enjolras shakes, and very quickly sits down in the grass, unabashed, and gazes up at the sky. “No, it’s lovely,” he says, and he’s not lying. “I--thank you.”

Grantaire folds himself into the spot next to him. “You are very welcome,” he says. Their legs end up pressed together all the way down to the thigh, and Enjolras feels himself relax even more.

“My dad is still going to kill me,” he points out, closing his eyes and tipping his head back so that he’s sprawled in the grass. “But it is nice to have a break.”

Grantaire is silent for a long moment, and when Enjolras slots an eye open to look at him, he’s just staring at Enjolras, almost as if he’s committing him to memory. The thought sends a not-quite-pleasant thrum down Enjolras’ spine to sit somewhere in his lower abdomen, and he squirms a little. That seems to jolt Grantaire out of it, and he says, quickly, “You didn’t think I was going to let you get away without doing any work, now did you?”

Enjolras blinks up at him. “Go on?”

Grantaire pulls out a scrap of paper, and lick his lips. “Tell me about, state legislation regarding unlawful hiring.”

Enjolras’ lips twitch. “Are we really doing this?” he says.

Grantaire makes a hushing noise. “Wrong,” he says, and his phone buzzes. He flips it open, and shakes his head.

“Grantaire.”

Instead of answering, Grantaire tosses him his phone and when Enjolras slides it unlocked, he sees a text from Combeferre. _Can you at least tell him I’m sorry?_ it reads. Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. He blinks, pulls out his own phone, and hits Combeferre’s number.

“You’re lucky I’m out of class,” says Combeferre. “Also, for not talking to me, you’re doing an awfully good job of talking at me.”

Enjolras snorts. “Weren’t you the one who yelled at me for cryptic text messages?”

 “Mm,” says Combeferre. “I think I said potentially worrying text messages,” he says. “Also, what’s worrying about wanting to apologize?”

Enjolras gives Grantaire his phone back, and catches their hands together, again. It’s starting to become a habit, tangling their fingers, but he can’t help himself. Grantaire looks down at their hands, and smiles.

Enjolras shakes his head. “Huh?” he says, and Grantaire only smiles harder. “I mean, you have nothing to apologize.”

“Really,” says Combeferre.

Enjolras shakes himself, and starts to sit up. At the same time, Grantaire reaches to take his hand back. He ends up leaning most of his weight against Grantaire’s torso, heart practically pounding out of his chest, and the rest of Combeferre’s sentence is lost on him. “What?” he says, hoarsely.

Combeferre sounds incredibly amused. “I told you this would be good for you,” he says.

Enjolras manages a broken sounding laugh. “I hate you so much right now.”

“But you’re talking to me,” Combeferre replies, still sounding like he’s grinning. “So you can’t hate me that much.”

“So, so, so very much,” Enjolras replies.

“You keep telling yourself that,” says Combeferre. There’s the sound of his locker slamming. “You planning on being back for Mock Trial?”

Enjolras lets out a colorful stream of curses, and glares up at Grantaire. “Yes?” Grantaire goes to take hold of his hand again, and Enjolras gets to his feet and stumbles away, hold his hand as far away as possibly from Grantaire as possible.

“Don’t you think you can distract me with your magical hand holding powers!” he snaps. “I am on to you.”

Combeferre makes a noise suspiciously similar to someone laughing into their palm. “Shut up.” Enjolras gives up on glaring at Grantaire; somewhere around the first accusation, he’d stopped hiding his amusement, and his full-bodied laughter is only serving to make Enjolras turn redder. “We will be back in twenty minutes,” he barks at Combeferre, and hangs up.

“I think you’re going to need to help me up, Apollo,” Grantaire says between laughs. “Unless, of course, my magical hand holding powers are going to distract you again.”

Enjolras grabs him by the hand and hauls him upright. “I’ll show you distracting,” he hisses, and then slams Grantaire against the nearest hard surface and kisses him.

It turns out to be a tree.

“There is something incredibly cliché about this,” Enjolras manages to say a few moments later, when he drags his mouth free of Grantaire’s to look him in the eye. “Skipping class to go make out in the woods.”

Grantaire makes a broken, almost sobbing noise, and startles when Enjolras’ thigh finds its way between his legs. “To be fair,” he says, “I do have magical hand holding powers.”

Enjolras glares back at him and twists his hips sharply. “You’re still talking,” he says, curling his hands in the hair at the back of his neck, both because he can, and to cushion his head against the tree. “We need to work on that.”

Grantaire groans a little, but when Enjolras goes to kiss him again, he meets him move for move, until Enjolras isn’t quite sure how he’s still standing.

“We’re going to be so late,” Grantaire breathes against his lips. “Combeferre is going to kill you.”

Enjolras rests his head against Grantaire’s shoulder and despairs. “I am never going to live this down,” he says, quietly. “I don’t do things like this.”

Grantaire pats him awkwardly on the back. “It’s okay,” he says. “I mean, again, Lamarque isn’t going to kill you.”

Enjolras lets out a deep breath. “Yeah,” he admits.

“And you can tell Cosette that she gets another date with Marius.”

Every muscle in Enjolras’ body goes tense as Grantaire’s words wash over him like a splash of cold water. Because, right. This isn’t real. Nothing about this is real, and is ever going to be real, and, really, Enjolras should probably address that, but a tiny part of him is terrified that saying something will only make it end. There’s another, much bigger part of him that doesn’t want it to, and that part of him is only growing.

There’s no way Grantaire doesn’t notice, pressed together as they are, but he says nothing when Enjolras steps back. “Right,” he says, voice stiff. “I mean, yeah, of course. Thanks for, um, doing that.”

Grantaire is staring back at him, confused. “Enjolras?” he says.

“I, uh.” Enjolras isn’t sure if he can look at him right now. “We should head back, yeah?”

Grantaire looks at him for another few moments, before nodding. “Okay,” he says, and as he heads back the way they came, Enjolras follows.

He keeps his hands in his pockets the whole way back, and Grantaire doesn’t meet his eyes.

\--

The meeting does not start well. For one, both Enjolras and Grantaire are late. For another, everyone is less than motivated. When they get to the meeting room, Combeferre and Courfeyrac have commandeered a desk to stand in for the witness stand, and Courfeyrac appears to be very badly playing judge while Joly practices his testimony.

(Enjolras isn’t completely sure, but he thinks Bossuet, Bahorel, and Feuilly are playing B.S. in the corner with what looks like three decks of cards; Bossuet, as per usual, is losing.)

Combeferre is mid cross when they come in, and he doesn’t so much as look up.

“Oh good, you’re here,” says Eponine when she spots them. She’s taken Enjolras’ usual seat, and is sharing Combeferre’s notes with Marius and Cosette. “We’re doing horribly, and we could definitely use your unique brand of motivation.”

Enjolras blinks. “My what?”

Grantaire makes his ways past him and with a little prompting from Cosette, sinks into the chair in front of her. She puts her hands in his hair immediately, and grins.

“Give a speech,” Eponine rephrases. “A motivational speech.”

Enjolras keeps blinking at her, baffled, from the doorway. “Um,” he says.

“She means yell at us,” says Courfeyrac. He waves his pretend gavel around a few times. “But actually, don’t do that. I’m not sure my heart could take it.”

“Your heart.” Enjolras has to fight not to raise an eyebrow. Grantaire leans up to whisper something in Cosette’s ear, and she giggles.

“I have a heart condition,” Courfeyrac explains. “That’s why Joly is speaking so quietly.”

Enjolras turns to look at Combeferre, who shrugs. “We needed someone to play judge,” he says. “And you know as well as I do that he knows the rules like the back of his hand.”

“That’s true,” Courfeyrac says. “R and I pulled an all-nighter one night and memorized them for shits and giggles Junior year.” He lifts a hand in the air in a mock high-five, which Grantaire returns with a quiet cheer.

Enjolras doesn’t know where to start with that sentence. “We started freshman year,” he says, finally. “And if I remember correctly, I told you to memorize the rules or don’t come back.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I winged it, mostly,” he says. “And it wasn’t like I needed to do much of anything. You were passionate enough for everyone.”

Enjolras grits his teeth. “That’s because our freshman year was the year with _them_.”

“Them?” Grantaire perks up.

“The seniors,” Cosette whispers to him, continuing to pet him. Enjolras pretends very hard that he is not jealous. “They didn’t really care about the club.”

“We were in danger of losing funding,” Enjolras says. “I did what I had to do.” He crosses the room to stand above Courfeyrac. “Come on, up. I’ll play judge and you can--”

He’s interrupted by Grantaire laughing.

“Yes?” he says, tightly.

“You’ll play judge,” Grantaire repeats. “I don’t doubt that you know the rules back and forwards, Apollo--”

“Don’t call me that.”

“--But from where I’m standing, you’re the one who needs the most practice.”

Enjolras’ jaw clenches. “Okay,” he says, considering. He turns to look at Courfeyrac. “Memorized, you say?”

Courfeyrac nods.

“How memorized?”

“Um.” Courfeyrac hands him the gavel when he reaches for it. “I think Grantaire turned them into a drinking song?”

“Right.” He throws the gavel to Grantaire, who catches it easily enough. “You be judge, then.”

Grantaire blinks. “Okay,” he says, standing and coming to take Courfeyrac’s place. “I don’t suppose I’m allowed to keep the injury.”

Enjolras just stares back at him. “That depends,” he says. “Will you be able to make that face unprompted?”

Grantaire tilts his head to one side. “That face--?” he starts to ask, before Enjolras leans down to kiss him.

“That face,” he agrees when he pulls back, and Grantaire is caught, cheeks a little flushed, eyes a little wide, and dazed to the bone.

Eponine and Combeferre look less than enthused, but Bossuet, Bahorel, and Feuilly finally look up from their game to give a little cheer. Enjolras can’t tell if it’s because of the kiss, or because someone’s finally won. Grantaire is staring back at him, smiling softly.  “You’re completely at home here,” he says. “In your element.”

Enjolras is suddenly self conscious. “I guess.”

Grantaire laughs. “You guess,” he says. “You’ve got to stop doubting yourself, Apollo, really.”

Eponine snorts. “I don’t think Enjolras has doubted himself once in his life, R,” she says. Cosette kicks her. “Ow.”

Enjolras ignores them both. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I guess I mean I think you’re amazing,” he says, sinking down into the designated seat and rolling his shoulders back, gavel coming to rest on the desk in front of him. “And I wish everyone else thought so.”

Enjolras is for a moment without words. “You’re just saying that,” he says, half mumbling. “You don’t mean it.”

Cosette makes a noise of disagreement. “Aw, come on, Enjolras,” she says, but Enjolras doesn’t turn to look at her. Instead, he stares at Grantaire, who is looking a little sad, and a little raw, and more than a little open. “Don’t say that. Right, Grantaire?”

Grantaire tears his eyes away from Enjolras’ to laugh. “Um, right,” he says, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “So, um, order in the court?”

Enjolras starts to step back and let Combeferre question Joly, but Grantaire catches his wrist. “I do,” Grantaire says, quietly, through his teeth. He makes a show of laughing off their point of contact, but when Enjolras leans even closer, he adds, “I’m not just. Acting.”

Enjolras shakes his head back at him, but before he has any time to pursue the conversation, Combeferre is stepping forward with intent and Grantaire is playing devil’s advocate and gamekeeper both.

He does it brilliantly. So brilliantly, that by the time Enjolras himself steps up to begin his closing, he’s already on edge. He knows that Grantaire is only speaking because he asked him to, and usually he’d welcome the kinds of critiques that the other’s been offering, but Grantaire is just a shade too sarcastic and amused to the point that he’s almost grating.

Besides, it’s not Grantaire’s fault that the plaintiff’s side is too far from his own beliefs for him to feel completely at home with. And certainly it must be hard for Grantaire to have to argue Enjolras’ ideals, when he knows deep down that he’s pretending.

He’s not sure how it happens, but one minute they’re a respectable distance from each other, and the next they’re being pried apart by Combeferre and Courfeyrac both, snarling and hurling sharp-tipped insults that are fast becoming too personal for the classroom.

 “I don’t even know what that has to do with anything!” Enjolras ends up snarling, and he’s not even sure when Grantaire got this close to him.

“Let me go!” Grantaire spits back through his teeth, whole body humming, and Enjolras is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he has both of his hands clenched in the material of Grantaire’s t-shirt.

He steps back, eyes wide and hands raised in front of him. “Grantaire,” he tries to say.

“Don’t talk to me,” Grantaire snaps back, and he strides across the room to grab his jacket. He doesn’t look back once until he reaches the classroom door, where he says, sweetly over his shoulder, “you and Marius get another date, you should use it to do something nice, coffee or something,” to Cosette.

Enjolras watches him go, blankly, and tries very hard to pretend like he can still breathe.

There’s a minute pause, before Cosette gets to her feet. “Right,” she says. “Everyone out. Eponine?”

Eponine gets to her feet, and heads for the door, calling, “Grantaire!”

Enjolras keeps staring ahead, as the rest of the members file out of the classroom. Combeferre and Courfeyrac pause in the doorway, but a quick word from Cosette has them moving on their way. Enjolras sees this only in his peripheral vision, as he’s not completely sure if he moves that he’ll be able to keep standing.

“Hi,” Cosette says, coming into view. “Something you want to talk about?”

Enjolras makes a horrible noise in the back of his throat. It sounds like something dying. He sinks onto the floor by the door and fights the urge to put his head in his hands. “I did something stupid,” he says, quietly.

Cosette comes to sit beside him, reaching out to cup his shoulder. “Okay,” she says, gently, petting along the skin of his neck. “Want to say what?”

“I kissed him.” Enjolras sits up, meets her very blue eyes, and looks back down at the floor. “And I said some things. And he said some things. And I think--” he breaks off and stares harder at the floor, before facing her again. She stares back, ungrudging, and he shakes his head, feeling more than a little hysterical. “I think he meant them.”

“Okay,” Cosette says. “What sort of things?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “We’re not really dating.”

Cosette starts shaking her head before he finishes. “Oh, Enjolras, really?” she says. “You’re the definition of dating. He met Papa for you. He comes to Mock trial for you. He fucking--” she breaks off, sighing. “You know how I said he took a year off?”

Enjolras nods.

“The rumor is he did it because of you.”

Enjolras wants to laugh. Enjolras wants to _cry_. He ends up doing a mix of the two. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he asks.

Cosette sighs. “Why don’t you think you’re dating?”

“Because I’m paying him,” Enjolras says, quietly, and feels Cosette stiffen next to him. “And before you say anything, I was kind of running short on time. You and Marius had your date all planned, and I didn’t want to let you down.”

Cosette leans her head back against the wall. “Let me down,” she repeats. “Enjolras, you picked the one person in this school who actually would have said yes if you’d just asked.”

Enjolras leans his head back against the wall with a thump, and stares blankly across the classroom. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do with that information, nor does he have any idea what he’s supposed to do with the way his stomach is a mess of knots. “We have class,” he says, finally.

“Enjolras--”

“I shouldn’t miss any more class,” he continues ignoring her. He gets to his feet, shakily, and closes his eyes. “I’ll fix it,” he tells her, not opening them.

A few seconds later, Cosette’s hand slides into his. “You’d better,” she says. “Come on, I’ve got English, I’ll walk you.”

“They’re in different hallways,” Enjolras tries to protest, but his sister just hushes him and leads him out into the hallway.

“Shut up and hold my hand.”

“Shutting up,” Enjolras replies, too quiet for her to hear. “I’ll fix it,” he says, again, and she squeezes his hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/). ~~Please don't kill me, I'm fixing them I swear~~.


	6. I hate how you never let me be;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the bandaid chapter, technically, but I get the sense that it's not actually? Probably better to call it the calm before the storm. (It is going to get worse because Enjolras is a failure.) 
> 
> Betaed by Kat and Bob. All other mistakes are my own.

**6\. I hate how you never let me be;**

\--

Fixing it ends up being impossible because, as it turns out, Grantaire wasn’t completely lying about his hiking trip. He vanishes sometime during second period the next day, and Enjolras is left eating despondently atop a picnic table, staring at the empty parking space where his car used to be. Because Grantaire drove today; he fucking _drove_. Enjolras doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You still moping?” says Courfeyrac from somewhere near Enjolras’ shoulder. He settles onto the table next to Enjolras and raises a hand to wave. “Found him!”

The rest of their friends file by and take seats at the picnic table.

“I’m not moping,” says Enjolras quickly. “He didn’t say goodbye.” He glares down at his phone.

“Yeah, okay,” says Courfeyrac. “Combeferre?”

“Why are you looking at me?” protests Combeferre, but he takes Courfeyrac’s place at Enjolras’ side and leans over to stare at the parking space with him. “Are you staring at a parking space?”

“It’s Grantaire’s,” says Courfeyrac. “And because you’re the only one of us who’s got any experience with dating.”

Marius makes a noise of protest.

“You don’t count, Marius.”

Combeferre shrugs and takes Enjolras’ phone from out of his lap. “At one in the morning last night,” he says, “you asked Grantaire if ‘hey, can we talk?’” He looks at Enjolras for a moment, and Enjolras looks right back. “And today, just before lunch, Grantaire sent back ‘sorry, can’t talk, I’m hiking!’” He pauses. “All caps for ‘hiking.’ And a smiley face.”

Enjolras holds a hand out for his phone. “To be fair,” he says when Combeferre sets it in his palm, “he did say he was planning on going hiking.” He turns back to the parking space.

“Can people even do that?” Marius says after a pause. “Take a hiking trip in the middle of the day, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” says Courfeyrac. “You never really know with R.”

Enjolras lets out a long, deep sigh, and the conversation stalls before it even begins.

“Right,” says Courfeyrac, after a moment. It sounds like he has to fight for the spot next to Enjolras, but he eventually claims it. “So, you’re sort of taking up the entire side,” he says, mirroring Enjolras’ pose and wrinkling his nose.

Enjolras turns his head to the side to stare at the smooshed-together group of their friends; Jehan and Eponine are bracketing Marius, who looks more than a little confused, and doesn’t seem to know what to do with his arms. Combeferre sits down at Enjolras’ feet with a sigh, nudging them off the bench and setting his lunch into the space between him and Coufeyrac. “You could try calling him,” he says.

Enjolras gives up on staring at the parking space and climbs down to sit next to Combeferre. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You should probably start with, ‘sorry.’”

Courfeyrac twists down so that he’s sitting next to Combeferre as well. “You could start with I love you!” He grins.

Marius sets his hands down on the table in front of him. “You probably shouldn’t throw around declarations like that unless you mean them,” he says.

Eponine chokes on a laugh.

“Of course Enjolras means it,” says Courfeyrac, rolling his eyes. “And you’re one to talk.” He makes a sickeningly sweet face. “Weren’t you the one who called me all moping because you’d met the most _amazing_ girl the other day?”

Marius flushes. “I didn’t say I loved her,” he protests.

Courfeyrac scoffs. “Did too,” he says. “You said it was love at first sight.”

“I said it was _like_ love at first sight!” Marius cries, casting a slightly terrified look in Enjolras’ direction. “And that was private!”

Enjolras raises one eyebrow. “You’re in love with my baby sister?” he says, resting one elbow on the table and leaning his chin into his palm. Marius can’t see her, but Cosette is within earshot carrying her lunch. She looks amused but says nothing when Enjolras’ lips twitch ever so slightly.

“Who’s in love with me?” Cosette comes up behind Marius and puts a hand on his shoulders. He flinches.

“Cosette, I--” he starts to say, head craning. He breaks off, breathless, and just sort of stares at her.

Eponine very pointedly kicks him under the table. “Talk, you dork,” she says. “Use your words.”

Marius sputters to life, and Enjolras turns to look at Courfeyrac. “So you’re the one who wanted him to join Mock Trial,” he says. “What were you thinking?”

Courfeyrac shoves him. “I’ll have you know that Marius is very good in a crisis,” he says.

Enjolras turns to watch Cosette lean in close to whisper in Marius’ ear; Marius goes pink in what should be an unattractive, splotchy way. “I see what you mean,” he says, and then is sure to raise his eyebrows when Cosette takes Marius by the hand to lead him away from the picnic table. “Careful, now.” He smirks at Cosette. “You’re still my baby sister.”

Cosette ignores him. “Don’t you have your own love life to be thinking about?” she says. “Leave mine alone.”

Enjolras blinks at her, and then goes scowling back to staring at Grantaire’s parking space. That he has to crane his head uncomfortably to see it means nothing to him.

“What’d I say?” Cosette hisses to Eponine.

“Grantaire decided to go on a hiking trip,” Eponine whispers back.

“Oh.” There’s a pause where Enjolras is sure he can feel Cosette’s eyes boring holes into the back of his head. “Call him,” she says, finally. “You idiot. Did no one else suggest that?”

“I did, actually,” says Combeferre.

“Ah, see,” Cosette says. “You have no reason to be moping.”

“You see that too?” says Combeferre. “And he says he doesn’t mope.”

Enjolras raises one hand and flips both of them off. “Don’t you have something to be doing?”

“I don’t know about something,” Cosette says. “But I do have someone to be doing. Right, Marius?”

Marius makes sputtering noise, and Enjolras whips his head around to glare at his sister. She stares right back, unfazed, before leaning up on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to Marius’ lips. Marius, for his part, looks more than a little torn, and Enjolras just deflates.

“I’m going to call him,” he says. “Eventually.”

Cosette sighs. “What did he say when you talked to him last?”

Enjolras holds out his phone to her, and she takes it, frowns down at the screen, and then nods.  “Right, okay,” she says, tapping at the screen a few times and then putting the phone to her ear.

Enjolras stares at her, blankly.

“Hello, Grantaire?” she starts to say, and Enjolras lunges for her. “Hi!” He gets his hands on her shoulders, but she somehow twists her way free. “So, Enjolras tells me you’re hiking?”

Enjolras is going to kill Cosette. Once he manages to catch her, that is.

“I know Eponine talked to you the other day,” Cosette continues, dancing away from Enjolras with surprising swiftness. “And I talked to my darling brother.” She fumbles briefly, and Enjolras uses that momentum to grab the hand with the phone.

“Grantaire?” he says, breathlessly into it. “Pay no attention to the screaming; I’m just going to murder my sister.”

Cosette tries to wrestle her hand free and bring the phone to her ear and, failing that, climbs her way up Enjorlas’ back to shout into both his ear and the phone. “Don’t let him get away with murder, Grantaire!”

Enjolras snorts and pries his phone free of his sister’s fingers. “You wouldn’t let them put me in jail, would you?” he asks, stepping a few paces away from the still laughing Cosette.

“You did just as-good-as-confess to me,” Grantaire says, dryly. “Even I’m not above lying on the stand.”

Enjolras shrugs, and moves the phone to his other ear to scratch at the back of his head. “There are ways around that,” he says. “I could always marry you.”

There is the sound of screeching tires and Grantaire possibly hacking up a lung.

Enjolras, for his part, only colors slightly. “Um,” he says.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, sounding more than a little breathless. “Can we save the life changing confessions for when I’m not driving?”

“We wouldn’t have to save them if you hadn’t run away,” Enjolras snaps back, defensive and cutthroat, and wincing as soon as the words come out. “I mean.” He takes a long, calming breath. “When are you coming back?”

Grantaire is silent for a long moment; probably, they should talk about how it isn’t okay for him to let Enjolras get away with so much stuff.

“Grantaire?” he tries, licking his lips and shifting a little on the balls of his feet.

 “Probably by the end of the week,” Grantaire says finally. “Why?”

“We,” Enjolras starts to say, a bit brokenly. “We need to talk.”

Grantaire lets out a stream of air. “Okay,” he says, his voice hollow. “That all?”

“Ah, no, I--” Enjolras breaks off and shuts his eyes. What is _wrong_ with him? “I just, um.”

Combeferre walks up behind him and takes the phone from his hand. “He misses you,” he says into it, and waits. “He’s been staring at your parking space for the past five minutes.” He puts the phone back into Enjolras’ hand. “Class in five.”

Enjolras watches him walk away with a wry tilt to his mouth, and almost misses Grantaire’s response. “My parking space?” he echoes back.

Enjolras winces. “Can we just ignore that?”

Grantaire laughs, quietly and low. “Ignore that I apparently have a parking space?” he says. “Ignore that you’ve been staring at it willing me to appear? This is enough for me to die happy, Enjolras, I don’t think we can ignore that.”

Enjolras growls into the phone. “I’m going to hang up on you,” he says.

Grantaire just laughs some more. “And what, stare at my parking --”

He hangs up--for a moment--and calls back seconds later.

“See,” says Grantaire when he picks up. “Told you.”

Enjolras considers throwing the phone at said parking space. “I actually have to get to class,” he says. “But I do.” He pauses, uncertain. “Miss you, I mean.” There’s a beat. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“I miss you too, if it helps,” Grantaire says weakly into the phone. He sounds exhausted. Part of Enjolras is suddenly a snarling mess of protective rage; he has no idea what to do with his hands.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t even know me.”

Grantaire is silent again. “I suppose if I said I did, that’d be creepy,” he says finally.

“Kind of, yeah,” Enjolras says. _But I’d like you to anyway_ , he doesn’t add.

“It’s pretty hard not to know you, actually,” Grantaire continues. “You are in no way silent about your opinions.”

Enjolras frowns. “My opinions are not me,” he points out.

Grantaire is unfazed. “Your opinions are entirely you,” he says. “Ridiculous, yes; misguided, for sure; and completely naive, but they say everything about you.”

Enjolras tries not to fidget. “Not everything, I should hope,” he says. “How I am in bed, for example.”

There’s a slightly longer pause, until Grantaire finally speaks. “Again, let’s save the life changing confessions for when I’m not driving.” He swallows. “Also when you’re not on speaker phone.”

Enjolras blinks. “What?” he says.

“Well, I mean, there are laws, Enjolras, honestly,” Grantaire continues. He is without a doubt steamrolling him, and Enjolras can smell that a mile away. “Not even for your dulcet tones would I break the law.” Grantaire’s passenger makes a terrible choking, laughing noise, and Enjolras’ eyes narrow.

“Feuilly?” he says.

“Erm,” says Feuilly. “Hi?”

“How long have you been listening?”

“The entire conversation; haven’t you been paying attention--Ow!” Grantaire breaks off mid-sentence with a cry of pain. “Hey, aren’t there rules about harming the driver?”

“That’s the third time you’ve almost swerved into oncoming traffic,” Feuilly says calmly. “I think you’ll find I’m perfectly within my rights to pinch you.” He raises his voice. “Right, Enjolras?”

“Don’t look at me! You’ve been listening this entire time,” Enjolras sends back, but his lips are twitching despite his words. “I’m not coming to your rescue.”

Feuilly sounds like he’s grinning when he says, “If anything, you’d be rescuing Grantaire. Hey, does that make you the damsel in this case?”

“Enjolras?” Grantaire says sweetly. “How serious were you about the marriage thing?”

Enjolras is full out grinning. “Depends,” he says. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Pay no attention to the screaming; I’m just going to murder our friend,” Grantaire agrees, and the line goes dead.

It’s the best goodbye Enjolras has gotten in a long time, and if he heads off the class with a spring in his step, no one is around to see him because he’s five minutes late.

\--

**To R:**

Lamarque docked points on our pop-quiz because I was late.

**To R:**

You lied to me.

**To R:**

>:(

**From R:**

did you just send me an angry face?

**To R:**

What of it?

**From R:**

nothing. nothing at all.

**From R:**

are you texting in class?

**To R:**

...Possibly.

**From R:**

um.

**To R:**

Is it that big of a deal?

**From R:**

Hi, this is Feuilly. Grantaire can’t come to the phone rigjtg nolw as he iks DIRIVING

**From R:**

ANDE WIYULD LIKE TO KEEP LVIGING

**From R:**

sorry about that. i’m being told to stop now. ttyl?

**To R:**

Yeah, of course.

\--

Car rides for Enjolras and Cosette have always been somewhat of a sacred thing. When they were younger, Valjean and Fantine would take them on long trips to go camping each summer, and Enjolras would spend the drive pretending he wasn’t fighting with his stomach for his food, while Cosette dozed in the seat next to him. Their parents would spend the rides attempting to catch up on their children’s lives, and as Enjolras was the one awake, he had to field the invasive questions. As they got older and Cosette stopped faking sleep, they developed a system to handle the interrogations.

They had very clear cut _Fightclub_ -esque rules that grew and changed with them, but the one thing that never changed was the unspoken law of solidarity. It didn’t matter that Valjean no longer drove them to school, and thus no longer had opportunities to quiz them on their day-to-day lives; they were in this together, and nothing would ever change that.

So Enjolras’ first reaction, when Cosette turns to him and says sweetly, “You know, that call earlier doesn’t count as fixing it,” is to slam on the breaks.

“What?” he manages once they’ve started rolling again and his sister manages to stop swearing.

“You’re a horrible person,” Cosette tells him, breathless. She sounds torn between laughing and continuing to curse him out. “You’re so lucky we’re related.”

Enjolras just turns on his blinker and switches lanes. “You want to run that by me again?” he says, equally sweet.

Cosette sighs. “I’m not breaking the rule,” she points out. “I just think we need to talk about this.”

Enjolras lifts one hand off the wheel and points at her. “You say you’re not breaking the rule but here you are breaking the rule,” he crows. “Ha.”

Cosette slaps his hand. “Oh my god both hands on the wheel you’re going to kill us,” she says, but she’s laughing.

He obliges and grins over at her.

“Also eyes.”

He stares at the car in front of them for a few seconds, switches lanes again, angling for their exit, and keeps silent.

“This is no way meant to be accusing,” Cosette says, finally, voice going serious. “But you really need--”

“To talk to him, I know,” Enjolras says, overlapping with her and sighing. “I texted him in class; he was still driving.”

Cosette hums. “That’s good,” she says. “Still doesn’t count--”

“Yeah, I get it,” he interrupts. “I’ll call him later.”

Cosette is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “Um, did you hear about the party Marius is throwing?”

Enjolras has to work very hard not to slam on the breaks again. “What?” His voice sounds harsh, even to his own ears, and he winces. “What?”

Cosette rolls her eyes at him. “It’s not really all that big,” she says. “Just a few friends; I figured you’d want to be present?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t really care either way,” he says, and then narrows his eyes. “Will dad let you go if I don’t?”

Cosette’s lips twitch. “Probably not?” she says.

Enjolras glares at her. “I’ll ask Grantaire,” he sighs. “After we talk.”

Cosette nods. “Good,” she says. “You do actually want to real life date him, right?”

He doesn’t look at her. “Yeah.”

His sister is silent for bit, and he turns towards her. She’s smiling at him, her mouth gone all soft in the corners, and her eyes are sparkling.

“Oh, stop it,” he says, turning purposefully back to the road; he can practically _hear_ Cosette’s smile.

“What?” she says. “I’m happy for you.”

He pulls off towards their street. “Shut up.”

“Are you blushing?”

There’s a beat. “No,” Enjolras says at the same time she says, “You _are_!”

“Shut up.” He parks in front of the house, not looking at her, and puts the car in park. “I am not.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt, pulls the keys free of the ignition, and opens his door. Cosette follows him eagerly, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulders. “I’m telling Papa,” she says.

Enjolras is momentarily distracted with his bag, but he looks up when her words register. “What?”

“Papa!” Cosette is already up the stairs to the porch. “Enjolras is blushing!”

He slams the door to the car, locks it, and throws himself after her. “I am not!” he cries, slamming into the house on Cosette’s heels and tossing his bag off in a random corner. It hits the living room floor with a sickening thud, and he winces; he’s lucky his laptop is upstairs sitting on his desk.

Valjean looks up from where he’s been sorting their mail at the kitchen counter. “Who’s doing what now?” he says.

Cosette grins. “Enjolras is blushing,” she repeats.

Enjolras lets the door to the house shut with a click. “Cosette is lying,” he says with dignity.

Valjean puts down the letter in his hand. “I don’t know,” he says, leaning forward and knocking his reading-glasses down onto his nose. “You look like you’re blushing to me.”

Cosette comes to stand next to him and mirrors his position, nodding her head pensively. “Yep, definitely blushing, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely,” their father agrees. He nudges his glasses back up on his nose and eyes Enjolras speculatively. “Why are you blushing?”

“I am not blushing!” Enjolras hisses. He stomps over to his fallen bag, picks it up, and starts for the stairs.

“Research would say otherwise!” shouts Cosette after him. “Isn’t that right, Papa?”

“She is in fact correct,” calls Valjean. “As the one who did such research, I have to say--”

“I hate both of you!” Enjolras shouts back at them, but he’s laughing even as he closes his door.

\--

Lamarque has assigned a three page paper for class tomorrow and Combeferre had taken one look at Enjolras’ sorry excuse for corrections to the closing and told him to have it to him as soon as possible. He’s got about 2 hours until dinner, and there is no way three pages will take him more than those 2 hours, so Enjolras sits down at his desk, opens his laptop, and sets to work. He ends up with a killer headache and five extra pages about the ideology of the French Revolution.

Near-hysterical laughter starts to bubble up in his throat, and he is very suddenly filled with a desire to text Grantaire. He almost reaches for his phone before he catches himself and sets his hand down hard on the desk. “This is becoming a problem,” he sighs, and prints the paper for a quick read through. 

Most of the paper is solid, so he cuts it down to three pages and adds a few inspiring quotes before dimming his laptop screen and resting his eyes, briefly.

He wakes up to the feel of Cosette replacing the laptop with a tray of food. “You missed dinner,” she says. “Papa and I decided you were too cute to wake, though.”

Enjolras just blinks back up at her blearily and tries to process what she’s saying.

“We took pictures, don’t worry,” Cosette continues. “Sent them to all the relevant parties. Only Courfeyrac called me back, and he couldn’t stop laughing long enough to say much of anything.”

Her words wash over him like a splash of cold water. “Wait, you did what?” he says.

Cosette picks up the spoon on the tray and spoons some soup into his open mouth. “This is the picture.” She tilts her phone into his face so that he can see the slightly blurry shot of him, snuggled into the pillows with his laptop on his chest and his shirt slowly rucking up to reveal skin. He’s the wrong way around on the bed, and there are papers everywhere.

He swallows around the spoon and glares at her.

“Combeferre just sent back a picture of Eponine giving a thumbs up,” she says calmly and tugs the spoon free of his mouth. She swipes to the picture in question; Eponine is wearing her Musain apron, and there are two sundaes on the table in the background.

“Wait, did you know about that too?” Enjolras manages to ask her before she feeds him another spoonful. “And I can feed myself, thanks.” His words come out muffled, but she gets the idea.

She ignores it. “They weren’t exactly subtle,” she points out, easily enough. “Also, Eponine is my best friend.”

“Combeferre is mine,” Enjolras responds around the spoon in his mouth.

Cosette shrugs at him. “Well, you know now,” she says. “Isn’t that something?”

Enjolras scowls a little, but then he sighs. “I mean, he’s definitely been happier lately,” he says. “So I guess I can’t really be angry at him for not telling me.”

Cosette snorts. “I’m pretty sure Combeferre’s way of telling you anything involves leaving breadcrumbs and hoping for the best.”

Enjolras shoots her a sideways look that ends up being more upwards; he can’t really be bothered to sit all the way up.

“Though, that’s probably more strategic than anything else.”

“What?”

“You get very intense when people spring important news on you suddenly,” Cosette tells him, feeding him some more soup.

He swallows grudgingly and goes somewhat boneless against the bed.

“Grantaire didn’t respond to me, however,” Cosette tells him. “I was sure to tell him that you’re supposed to be talking, and I think he texted you? Your phone dinged--Enjolras!” She grabs for the tray before he upends it onto the bed his in his quest for the phone.

His phone is on his desk, and his chin bangs loudly against his bedside table when he reaches for it, but he ignores the stab of pain in search of the text message. There is none. Instead, his phone informs him that he needed to start working on the closing thirty minutes ago.

He sighs. “Not Grantaire,” he says, crawling back onto the bed and settling back against his pillows despairingly. He arranges his legs underneath him more comfortably and lets out a long breath. When he looks up, Cosette is staring back at him with a knowing look in her eyes. “What?”

“I think what Courfeyrac was trying to say is that you’re adorable,” she says. “Which is completely true.”

Enjolras glares at her.

She starts. “Oh yeah, Jehan wrote a poem about you.”

Enjolras puts his head in his hands. “Did you send it to my entire contact list or something?

Cosette doesn’t respond to that. “It’s very lovely, actually,” she says. “I think you’ll find it inspiring.” She opens her mouth to recite the poem, but shuts it abruptly when Enjolras’ phone buzzes in his hand.

There’s an awkward moment of silence.

“Who is that?” Cosette sing-songs.

Enjolras looks down at the screen. “None of your business,” he sing-songs back at her, and unfolds himself from the bed, unlocking the phone as he goes. “Hello?”

She raises both of her eyebrows and gets to her feet. “Oh?” she says, backing out of the room holding the tray and refusing to look away from his eyes.

“You look adorable when you’re sleeping,” says Grantaire.

“Is it Grantaire?” says Cosette. “It is Grantaire, isn’t it--you are _blushing_ again--Grantaire! Hi--!”

Enjolras shuts the door in her face and leans back against it. “I don’t suppose you could pretend you didn’t hear that?”

Grantaire pauses. “Depends,” he says finally. “Can you pretend you didn’t hear me?”

“Hear you what?” He tips his head back against his door and tries not to smile.

“See, you’ve got it,” Grantaire says. If he’s attempting to hide his own smile, he fails horribly; there is laughter oozing from every word in his sentence. “Although, to be completely honest, I might have to break my own rules--you really are too cute to be real.”

Enjolras finds that he is somehow starting to sink down the door and very quickly locks his knees. “The photo isn’t that great,” he says, heading back for his bed. He sets the phone down on the pillow and puts it on speaker so that he can pick up his papers. “I’m pretty sure there are worse ones in our albums.” He gives the stack of papers a quick thunk on the desk before setting them on his desk, stopping to grab his laptop, which he sets next to them.

“That I might have to see.” Grantaire’s voice is one long, easy curl of quiet bemusement. “If you wake up in the middle of the night to odd noises in your house, don’t worry. It’s just me, making off with your baby pictures.”

“Baby pictures?” says Cosette’s voice from right outside his door. “You want baby pictures?” She pushes the door open, her face gleeful, to lean into the room. Enjolras stares back at her, horrified. “I have baby pictures! Grantaire! Grantaire, don’t break into our house I have the baby pictures!”

Enjolras is seriously considering throwing something at her, but the only thing within reach is his phone.

“Cosette?” says Grantaire, also gleeful. “Is that--am I on speaker?”

Enjolras makes a broken noise and puts his head in his hands.

“Is this payback for earlier?” Grantaire continues, and he is definitely trying to hide laughter. “Do you want me to start making life changing confessions?” His voice is suddenly much clearer. “Because I don’t know if I can top yours.”

“Yours?” says Cosette, at the same time Grantaire says,

“I’m not going to propose, since it’d be untasteful to try to one up you there, but I’m all game for bedroom talk.”

“Oh my god,” says Enjolras as he finally manages to get his body to obey him and grab for the phone.

“I’m sorry?” says Cosette. “Bedroom talk?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Enjolras says, both to Grantaire into the phone, and then to Cosette as he herds her out of his room again. He can hear her laughing as she, thankfully, walks away and downstairs with the tray. “Don’t think I won’t. And I’ll get away with it, since we’re married.” Something flutters to life in his chest when he says that, and Enjolras has to close his eyes.

Grantaire makes one of those half swallowed noises again, and his voice briefly goes out of focus. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he says. “If I’d been driving, I’m pretty sure I’d be dead.”

Enjolras walks over to his bed and sinks down onto it, kicking off his shoes and nestling into his pillows. “But you’re not driving,” he says. “So I’m good.”

Grantaire probably rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t breathe easy yet,” he says. “Knowing you, you’ll find some ridiculous way to kill me with you words.”

The air in the room is suddenly very hot. “How do you figure?” Enjolras says, his voice dry and hoarse. “From my ‘opinions’?” He makes the air quotes, and has to take a moment to fish around the pillow for his phone when it falls. “Because if so, I might have to rethink my earlier assessment.”

There is an almost-too-long pause.

“Grantaire?”

“See?” Grantaire says finally. “There you go again. I’m dead.”

Enjolras considers the time on his clock and reaches down to unbutton his jeans. He gets it undone, pushes the zipper down, and starts working the pants off of his legs. “Woops,” he says, lifting his hips and kicking them off of the bed, yawning. “There goes my hope for a June wedding.”

Grantaire sounds choked. “Do I even need--to say--anything?” He sounds suddenly much more broken, and Enjolras freezes from where he’s started burrowing his feet under his covers.

“Are you getting off on this?” he says, because he is an idiot.

Grantaire makes a bitten off noise and the line goes dead.

Enjolras stares down at the phone in a mild daze, and ignores the sudden curl of pleasure in his abdomen. He purses his lips, and hits redial. The call goes to voicemail, twice, and finally on the third try, Grantaire picks up. “I don’t suppose we can pretend that never happened?” he says, and while he sounds much more composed, there’s no way Enjolras can’t hear the strain in his voice.

He takes a deep breath, and figures, now or never. “That depends,” he says, careful to pitch his voice as calmly curious as opposed to earth-shatteringly terrified. “Why didn’t you pick up the first two times?”

Grantaire laughs and it sounds painful. “Enjolras,” he says, but it comes out half a groan.

Enjolras shuts his eyes, and drags a hand down his chest. “Yes?”

“You’re _killing_ me.”

“Established fact.” His hand finds his waistband, and he lets his fingers play along the slope of his hipbones, shivering. “Anything new to add?”

“You are going to be the _death_ of me,” Grantaire reiterates. “The absolute death. Feuilly will come back from wherever the hell he’s fucked off to to find me dead in the tent tomorrow morning and it will be _all your fault_.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Again,” he says, giving in and slipping his hand further down. “Already established.”

Grantaire bites off a curse. “What do you want me to say?” he says, almost disbelieving. “I’m not sure if there is anything I can say that can accurately portray how very much you are going to be the--Enjolras?”

Enjolras manages to peel his eyes open and make some sort of questioning noise. “Hmm?”

Grantaire sounds like he can’t quite figure out if he should be laughing, or crying. “Are you--what are you doing right now?” His voice goes painfully high at the end. Enjolras tightens the grip of his fingers and moves his hand in one long stroke that has his toes curling.

“What do you think?”

There is a sudden rush of static on Grantaire’s end before he comes back on the line, loud and short of breath. “I take it back this is worse than any of the other ones, _Enjolras_ ,” he voice goes into this half whine thing at the end, and Enjolras bites down on his bottom lip, hard.

“Yes?” The blankets are suddenly too hot and too stifling and he kicks them off.

“What are you doing right this moment?” Grantaire’s voice has gone dark and raspy, and Enjolras stifles and odd mix of a laugh and a curse with the back of his hand.

“Depends,” he says, tilting his hips up and breaking off to pant brokenly into the open air. “Why did it take you so long to pick up?”

Grantaire lets out a barrage of swears. “You _bastard_ ,” he says. “You are _not_.”

Enjolras finds the base of his cock and lets his fingers tighten. “I think you’ll find I am.” He gives himself one more stroke, before waiting. “Come on. I know you had earlier--” Grantaire sounds wrecked, “--but I’ll wait.”

“You’re ridiculous, I’m sharing this tent!”

Enjolras detects just a hint of bite to that sentence that suggests Grantaire is finally on the same page as him, and resumes his movements. “Should have thought about that before you got off earlier,” he tells Grantaire neatly. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

“What’s your excuse?” Grantaire says, probably trying for mild. He ends up somewhere stuck between terribly aroused and terribly overwhelmed.

Enjolras lets his head fall back more solidly against his pillow. “You got off to my voice earlier,” he says, and he succeeds at mild. “It’s only fair--that I should--return the favor.” His voice breaks the sentence into three neat parts and he whines through his teeth.

“God I hate you,” Grantaire says, breathlessly. “It’s like you’re some sort of horrible wet-dream-turned-nightmare sent to disprove every article on-- _refractory_ \--periods... Ah!”

Enjolras manages something of a smirk. “Keep talking,” he purrs. “I like the sound of your--hnng--voice.”

Grantaire blends a moan and a laugh and goes worryingly silent for a moment. “So Cosette says you wanted to talk to me,” he says after a short pause. “She seemed vehement.”

“Aren’t there rules about this?” Enjolras says, through his teeth. “I swear to god I’m going to fucking _murder_ you when I see you.”

“There we go,” Grantaire breathes. “Exactly--what I--mmm--needed.”

Enjolras blinks. “Did you just--was that _purposeful_?”

There are the small sounds of Grantaire adjusting the phone and shifting in his sleeping bag, too loud rustles, and the slight chirp of crickets that reminds Enjolras exactly where he is. “If you could hear yourself when you get angry you’d understand,” Grantaire is murmuring, rambling, _babbling_ in his ear, and it’s extremely distracting and so, so good. “I mean, obviously I can’t see you either, but I have the image of you and that’s good enough for--” he breaks off.

“For...?” Enjolras prompts, dragging his eyes open and rolling onto his side, hissing and sighing and flexing his toes.

“For, uh, Enjolras, I can’t--are you--?” Grantaire sounds like he’s a mess.

Enjolras can barely breathe for how good that is. “Shall I guess?” he says.

Grantaire makes a desperate noise against his ear. He takes that as a yes.

“For now, maybe? That fits, certainly.” He drags his other hand free of the phone, which is now lost somewhere between his head and the pillow, to press against his heart. It’s beating fast enough to be worrying, but he ignores it, pressing the circle of nail against his left nipple, and sighs. “Was it going to be for now?” he presses. “Grantaire, tell me, was it--”

“Yes, yes it wa--oh _god_ ,” says Grantaire, voice going wobbly at the end, and Enjolras follows him over the edge with one blissful, perfect haze of pleasure.

“I meant what I said about ‘for now,’” Enjolras manages to say, eventually, once his senses reengage. “There’s no way we’re not having a repeat performance when I see you on Friday.” There’s a moment when his sentence hangs in the silence, and his heart sinks. “Um, I mean, that was nice.” Grantaire is still silent. “Not that I have anything to compare it to, just, er.” He stops, suddenly awkward, and waits. “Grantaire?”

Grantaire lets out a breath that sounds dangerously like he’s repeating the words ‘first’ over and over, and says, “Yeah, right, uh. Me too?”

Enjolras risks a slightly hysterical laugh. “I’m not sure I’m convinced.” He tries to be teasing, but his voice ends up just a shade too sincere. He winces. “Um.”

“You,” says Grantaire. “I’m just--sorry, _first_?”

Enjolras raises both of his eyebrows. “I told you I’ve never dated,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that encompasses...that--what we just did.” Which, now that he thinks about it, is completely accurate. And Grantaire had been entirely game for all of it, which meant that really there was no need for Cosette to be so worried.

“Probably, yeah,” Grantaire says, not sounding nearly as pleased. “Shall we call it a date and call Cosette?”

Enjolras blinks. “I,” he says. “Pardon?”

“Never mind,” Grantaire mutters. “I’m just--brain cells. Not yet recovered. From, um, that--can we talk about something else?”

Enjolras listens to him stumble his way through his words for a few moments, smiling to himself. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “How was your first day of hiking?” There’s a small part of him that insists that he’s better off pushing it, but he ignores that. “Fall down any cliff faces?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You’re just pissed you weren’t there to watch me,” he says. “I mean, no.”

Enjolras grins, widely.

“Shit,” says Grantaire. “I really probably should go to sleep if I’m this,” he breaks off and Enjolras can just imagine him waving a hand in the air. “Distracted.”

“Brain cells?”

“Brain cells.” Grantaire laughs, but it’s wooden and hollow sounding. “You tend to have that effect on me.”

Enjolras feels like he should address that, but he is suddenly exhausted. He kicks off his boxers, finally, and gets to his feet, phone sandwiched between his shoulder and neck. He bundles his jeans and boxers into a ball with minimal wincing, sticks them into the laundry basket, and tugs his shirt over his head. “Really?” he says, grabbing a clean pair of boxers and pulling them on quickly so he’s not standing in his room nakedly on the phone anymore.

“Really,” Grantaire agrees. “But, um, I should--”

“Right, hiking,” Enjolras agrees in a rush. “You should get your rest.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “But, er, rain-check. For, uh, Friday?”

Enjolras is all of a sudden a mess of warm, glowy feelings that he honestly has no idea what to do with. “Yes,” he says, voice coming out too tiny and too shivery, and shivers. “It’s a date?” He’s said it before, in the cafe when they were going to get ice cream, but he hadn’t meant it quite the same way there. Now, though, it really is a question, not a running joke, and he hopes, desperately, that Grantaire gets that.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, voice sounding very small, and Enjolras is blinking owlishly, because that’s not what he’d been hoping for.

“I--Grantaire?” he tries to say, but all he gets is the dial tone because Grantaire’s hung up.

He sets the phone back down on his bedside table, goes stumbling back to his bed, crawls under the covers, and tells himself that that’s fine. That Grantaire understood. That everything will work itself out.

It feels just about as close to a lie that he’s gotten in a long while, and he falls asleep with a hollow ache in his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So those two are idiots, yes? I really wish to knock some sense into them.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/) ~~and don't kill me, again, FIXING IN FUTURE~~.


	7. but also when you’re gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one took a while, and I am really sorry! My betas went away over the weekend, I went to the Graceland screening yesterday, and real life just sort of took precedent. But this one is long, so hopefully that makes up for it? (Unfortunately Bob is away this weekend, so I can't guarantee when you'll get eight but it is written.)
> 
> Betaed by Bob and [kat](http://fourbelts.tumblr.com/) who is AWESOME GO LOVE HER. All other mistakes are my own.

**7\. but also when you’re gone.**

\--

“I need your help,” says Bossuet. Enjolras opens his locker so that he can avoid the expression on his friend’s face. “Please?”

Enjolras sighs. “What with?”

Bossuet lets out a relieved breath. “You know Courfeyrac’s party?”

Enjolras grabs his books, and closes his locker again. “Yeah?” He starts walking down the hall, and Bossuet falls into step with him. “Wait, Courfeyrac’s party?”

Bossuet pauses. “Uh,” he says. “I mean, technically I think it’s Marius’ party? But you know Marius.”

Enjolras nods. “Marius,” he agrees, walking again. “What about the party?”

Bossuet looks chagrined. “I’m in charge of decorations,” he says.

“Decorations,” says Enjolras dryly.

“Just a banner,” Bossuet admits. “It was Marius’ idea--it’s kind of sweet, actually.”

Enjolras nods.

“Only, I had it in my car, and it rained last night.”

Enjolras just nods again, because he’d rather not think about whether or not it was raining last night; he has enough things jumbled in his head, like the needy little noises Grantaire makes when he’s close, that the weather pales in comparison.

And now he’s flushing, so there’s that. Bossuet doesn’t appear to notice. “But I figured I’d caught it early enough, and I could bundle it into my sweatshirt and run for it.” He shrugs. “I fell.”

Enjolras winces.

“It wasn’t all that bad, but it’s a bit muddy. And it sort of says, ‘For my lovely Coset,’ now. Without the last ‘t’ and ‘e’,” Bossuet smiles at him again. “So, if you’re free, do you mind helping me find last-minute decorations?”

Enjolras almost nods again as some sort of default defense mechanism, before Bossuet’s words catch up with him. “Last-minute how?” he says accusingly.

Bossuet gulps. “Did, um, Courfeyrac not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Enjolras asks, stopping in the middle of the hallway. A few students behind them make ugly squawking noises and stumble around him. He ignores them.

“Um,” says Bossuet. “He’s decided to move the party up to Friday?”

Enjolras stares at him. “Friday,” he repeats. “Tomorrow Friday?”

“Um,” says Bossuet. “Yes?”

Enjolras continues staring at him for a bit. “Right,” he says. “Let me just murder him, and then we can meet up after school to take care of your decoration fiasco.” He starts walking before he’s done speaking.

“Thank you!” Bossuet calls after him. “I mean, wait, no, don’t kill Courfeyrac!”

Enjolras raises a hand to wave at him. “After school!” he says loudly. “Meet me at my car!”

Bossuet tries to say something in response, but by then Enjolras has been swallowed up by the crowds. Courfeyrac has Latin; if he runs he can catch him.

\--

Enjolras only has to walk by the classroom three times before Courfeyrac realizes that it would be in his best interests to exit it. When his friend does so, shaking his head at Enjolras and closing the classroom door behind him, Enjolras doesn’t give him any time to react before he grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him around a corner and backs him up against the lockers.

“Are you ditching class?” Courfeyrac whispers, his voice unnaturally high. At this angle Enjolras can still see most of the classroom, and he’s pretty sure Joly is slowly leaning his way out of his seat to watch them.

“Why are you throwing a party for Cosette and Marius?” Enjolras asks him. He gives Courfeyrac a little shake.

“Don’t you have Chemistry?” continues Courfeyrac, unconcerned with the grip Enjolras has on his forearms. “Don’t you have a Chemistry _lab_?"

“Answer the question.”

“Is this some sort of sexual awakening?” says Courfeyrac, which is just ridiculous enough to derail Enjolras on his journey for answers. “Are you finally experiencing the joys of teenage rebellion?”

“What?” Enjolras nearly shouts, then very quickly brings his voice back down again. “Stop distracting me.”

“Are piercings next?” says Courfeyrac. He tries to reach up to pat Enjolras on the back but stops when Enjolras glares at him. “Because I have to draw the line somewhere, and I think it’s piercings.”

“I am going to give you three seconds to answer my question,” says Enjolras, calmly. “One.”

“On second thought I think dying your hair is where I would have to put my foot down.”

 “Two.” Enjolras squares his jaw and stares Courfeyrac down.

“Although you definitely have the complexion for dark hair--”

Courfeyrac appears to be actually contemplating this, so Enjolras tightens his grip on him and steps just a bit closer.

“--Marius wants to kiss Cosette?” Courfeyrac cries and shuts his eyes.

Enjolras releases his grip on and steps back. “He what?”

Courfeyrac opens his eyes cautiously. “He wants to have their first kiss?” he tries. “Which, you know, I realize might be foreign to you as you somehow went from being someone who never-dated to will-make-out-with-you-in-front-of-all-our-friends, but--”

Enjolras raises a pointed eyebrow.

“--the point is, Marius and Cosette have not kissed yet, and he wanted it to be special!” Courfeyrac stammers out in a rush.

“Huh,” says Enjolras. “Go on.”

“And, um, I told him the best place to do that would be a party? And he said he didn’t know how to throw a party? And I love parties?” He manages a smile. “And I, uh, am a good friend--is any of this making sense? Please stop looking at me like that.”

Enjolras keeps staring at him. “I’m not looking at you any differently,” he says. “Also, why would a party be a good place for a first kiss--?”

“That’s true, actually,” says Courfeyrac, over him, ignoring his question. “We should work on that.”

“Courfeyrac,” says Enjolras warningly.

“Fine, so I might have convinced Marius that a party was a good idea for selfish reasons--”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“It’s our senior year!” whispers Courfeyrac dramatically. “This is our last chance to have a party and my parents are out of town all weekend!”

“We have the Mock Trial party,” Enjolras tries to say.

Courfeyrac scoffs at him. “That thing,” he says. “Come on--either we win, in which case you’re unbearably smug and refuse to drink, or we lose, and you’re unbearably depressed and _still refuse to drink_.”

Enjolras stares at him blankly. “Okay,” he says. “But I’m telling Cosette, and she will most definitely kiss Marius sometime before the party.”

“That’s cool.” Courfeyrac pats him on the back, hard. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll have plenty of other things to do. I put Bahorel and Feuilly in charge of fun.”

“Isn’t Feuilly with Grantaire?” says Enjolras.

Courfeyrac’s mouth snaps shut. “That bastard,” he hisses, shaking his head. “How much of class is left? I’m supposed to be in the bathroom...”

He glances around Enjolras into the classroom, and angles his head up at the clock. “Uh, most of it?” says Enjolras. “I’m not--oh _god_ this is becoming a habit--”

Courfeyrac pauses. “What?” he says.

“Nothing,” Enjolras tries to say, but then Courfeyrac is stepping in close and staring down his nose at him. “Um, skipping class?”

“Oh.” Courfeyrac moves back. “Huh.” He tips his head at Enjolras for a moment. “So, when is Grantaire (and therefore ‘of course I can handle the fun, Courfeyrac’ Feuilly) getting back?”

Enjolras is all of a sudden too hot under his skin. “Tonight,” he manages. “It was a very short hiking trip.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “You’re blushing,” he says. “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing.”

“I think the evidence would state--” Courfeyrac tries to say at the same time Enjolras snaps, “If you say anything about research or evidence I will gut you.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth closes with an audible click.

“Sorry.” Enjolras brings a hand up to the back of his neck and sighs. “I’m not really at my best right now.”

Courfeyrac nods at him. “Sleep well?”

And any semblance of calm that Enjolras had managed to accumulate goes out of him. He shifts, suddenly almost fidgety on his feet, and refuses to look at anything other than the tile floor they’re standing on.

“That bad?” says Courfeyrac.  He pats Enjolras awkwardly on the back. “Is this about Grantaire?” he asks.

“Isn’t everything?” says Enjolras, which really isn’t what he had meant to say _at all_.

Courfeyrac agrees, and the look on his face when Enjolras finally peers up at him is oddly nostalgic. “I don’t know whether to be happy for you,” he says, “or angry that you’ve just cost me twenty bucks with that particularly sad-sack expression.”

“What?” says Enjolras.

Courfeyrac pats him on the back again, harder than before. “Cheer up,” he says. “R’ll be back tonight, and you can go beg his forgiveness slash invite him to Marius’ fabulous first-kiss party! Win-win!” He winks and pulls open the door to his classroom. “Miss me?” he crows, in Latin.

Enjolras puts his head in his hands. He’s missed the first ten minutes of Chemistry, a class that he shares with Cosette, so there really is no easy excuse.

\--

“I never believed I would live to see the day!” says Bahorel. “The great Enjolras himself--in detention for being late to class!”

Enjolras doesn’t even bother lifting his head off of his hands. “Fuck off,” he says.

“Now, now,” says Bahorel. “Is that any way to treat your rescuer?”

Enjolras turns his head so that he can better glare at Bahorel. “I said,” he says. “ _Fuck off_.”

Bahorel claps him on the shoulder. “See, further proof of why he shouldn’t even be here--I’m pretty sure his brains are rotting as we speak.” He taps his fingers against Enjolras’ back again. “Come on,” he says. “Up we go.”

Enjolras gets to his feet, blinking. He’s pretty sure that there are spitballs stuck in his hair because he ended up sitting in front of Claquesous, and he probably should burn his clothes as soon as he gets home. To be safe. “Where are we going?”

Bahorel nods once at the teacher in charge and continues to steer him free of the room. “Food,” he says. “You’re only supposed to be here for the first half of lunch.”

“Right,” says Enjolras, sighing. “So public, then.” He drags his arm free of Bahorel and makes a beeline for the bathroom, where he spends a few minutes with his head under the sink. “How bad is it?” he says when he hears the bathroom door open.

“Depends what you’re asking?” says someone who is most definitely not Bahorel. “Are we talking about the state of your hair prior to this impromptu shower, or the fact that you’ve spent the last two minutes with your head under a sink?”

Enjolras reaches out blindly for some paper towels and uses them to cover his neck and shoulders when he stands up. Grantaire blinks back at him, smiling.

“You’re back early.” Some of the water drips into his eyes, and Enjolras shakes his head a few times.

“You very much resemble one of those blended dogs,” says Grantaire. “A something-doodle. An Enjolrasdoodle.”

Enjolras gives Grantaire a look that he hopes accurately expresses the level of idiocy that has just come out of his mouth.

“What?” Grantaire raises both of his hands. “I just spent two hours driving mindlessly through the country with Feuilly.”

Enjolras glares balefully up at his hair. “Your own fault,” he says, testily.

Grantaire sighs and pulls his hoodie over his head. “Yours, technically,” he points out, and gives Enjolras no time to respond before dragging the still warm fleece over Enjolras’ head and giving it a firm rub. “But we resolved that, didn’t we?” He sounds almost hopeful, and Enjolras manages to bring a hand up to intertwine their fingers.

“Yeah,” he says. This should be the point where he says it outright, but, before he can, Grantaire finishes his makeshift towel dry, and pulls away.

“There, you look slightly less like someone hosed you down.”

Enjolras raises his head to meet Grantaire’s eyes, almost hesitantly. “Thank you?” he says. “I think.”

“You’re still an Enjolrasdoodle, though,” Grantaire continues. Enjolras glares at him, mouth twitching into an unwilling smile, before slamming him up against the door to the bathroom.

“Say that again,” he growls. “I dare you.”

“Is this the new you?” says Grantaire. “Post-detention, will stick my head under a sink if I have to, kicking ass and taking names, Enjolrasdoo--”

Enjolras interrupts him with a kiss, a biting, hard, furious kiss, and breaks away to mutter, “You really need to shut up,” against his lips, before diving back in.

“Mm,” says Grantaire. And then, “Oh my god what are you doing?”

Enjolras refuses to meet his eyes and concentrates instead on figuring out Grantaire’s zipper. The metal is warm to touch, and it slides down easily enough once he gets a hold of it. Then there’s the matter of the button.“I figure it was pretty obvious,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“You figure it’s obvious!” Grantaire manages to say, voice going uncommonly high on the last few words when Enjolras opens the button, and slides a hand down the front of his jeans.

“That is what I said, yes.”

“Death of me,” Grantaire groans, hands settling onto Enjolras’ back. His head slams back against the bathroom door when Enjolras wraps his hand around his cock and gives it a quick squeeze. “I swear to _god_ , Enjolras--!” Grantaire’s voice breaks off in another one of those high whines, and Enjolras is glad to be able to see the way he looks while making that particular vocalization. His eyes, if possible, become even bluer, and his mouth ends up absolutely wrecked for the way he ends up worrying it with his teeth.

“You’re beginning to sound like a broken record,” says Enjolras, pushing his way past Grantaire’s boxers to find skin. He licks his lips once, and moves his hand in one careful stroke.

“Yes, well,” Grantaire says, eyes falling shut again. “You’ll find it’s very hard to say much of anything when someone has your cock in their hand.”

Enjolras frowns up at him, because that sounded like a perfectly formed sentence, and scrapes a nail gently along the skin of Grantaire’s cock.

Grantaire’s head goes slamming back against the door again, louder this time, and Enjolras freezes. “Are you going to keep doing that?” he says, snappish.

“Doing what?” says Grantaire, blinking his eyes open and pushing his head back against the door again.

Enjolras glares at him. “That,” he says. He’s perfectly aware that he’s making little sense, but he ignores both the reason and the way his free hand is shaking against the door. A few wet strands of hair fall into his eyes, and he blows at them.

“Apollo,” Grantaire says, careful. “Are you okay?”

He starts, and tightens his hands into fists. Grantaire winces, and Enjolras very quickly lets go, tugging his hand free and staring down at the floor. “Peachy,” he says, his tone more than a little sour.

Grantaire seems to come to some conclusion, and reaches down to do up his zipper.

“No, wait,” Enjolras says, bringing his hands up to grip Grantaire by the wrists. “Don’t--” he breaks off, lips twisting. “First time for everything, right?”

Grantaire sort of stares up at him with this dazed expression on his face. “Yeah,” he says, carefully. “Only, probably it’d be better for you to do this somewhere that is not a public bathroom at school.”

Enjolras considers this. “Yeah, okay,” he says quietly, finally flushing. “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright?” Grantaire gets out, almost laughing. “You’re just had your hand down my pants in a public bathroom and you’re asking if _I’m_ alright?” He twists his wrists free so that he can take hold of both of Enjolras’ hands. “I should be the one asking you if you’re okay,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras stares down at where Grantaire’s thumbs are stroking across the backs of his hands and sighs. “I’m fine,” he tells the floor, which is a lie.

Grantaire doesn’t stop rubbing soothing circles into his skin. “Enjolras...,” he says quietly.

“We should probably get to class,” interrupts Enjolras before he can finish.

“Probably,” Grantaire agrees, sounding reluctant.

“Also, your pants are still undone.”

Grantaire doesn’t comment; he simply nudges Enjolras’ hands to the side, and straightens his clothes. “Yours could look better,” he says, eyes dragging up and down Enjolras’ legs. “But I don’t think it’s obvious what you spent the better half of lunch doing.”

“It’s obvious,” says Combeferre, dryly, when they venture free of the bathroom. He’s leaning against a water fountain, picking at his nails. “But only to me.”

Enjolras refuses to meet his eyes.

“And that’s probably because I’ve been standing outside the bathroom telling people not to use it for the past five minutes.”

Grantaire looks confused, but says nothing. He falls into step with Enjolras and Combeferre easily enough, and they make their way down the hall.

“I take it you fixed it, then?” says Combeferre.

“Fixed what?” says Grantaire.

“Yes,” says Enjolras tightly. “Now leave it.”

Combeferre raises both of his eyebrows but says nothing.

“Fixed what?” repeats Grantaire. He frowns a little, and casts a look over Enjolras’ head. “Actually, hold that thought. I’ve got woodshop and I’m late.” He leans in close, almost as if to kiss Enjolras, and then backs off, as if burned. “Um,” he says. “See you later?”

He starts walking before Enjolras can even respond.

“See you, Grantaire!” calls Combeferre. “At the party tomorrow, yeah?”

Grantaire raises a hand in acknowledgement, and vanishes around a corner. Enjolras stares after him, at a loss.

“I’m guessing you didn’t actually fix it, then,” says Combeferre, and lets Enjolras punch him in the shoulder when he catches up.

“I’m working on it, okay?”

“Okay.”

\--

Decoration shopping with Bossuet is an experience. They clear a path through the store with Bossuet driving the cart, drawing attention simply because it’s late, a school day, and Bossuet has no qualms about shouting joyously.  Enjolras leads, as best he can, and tries his best to keep Bossuet from getting distracted.

“So I hear you interrupted Latin this morning,” says Bossuet cheerfully. He starts to reach for a box of peeps, and Enjolras doesn’t even look up to smack his hand away.

“Joly told you,” he says.

“Mmm,” says Bossuet. “And Courfeyrac. Who felt rather cheated of your language skills.”

Enjolras sighs. “Does this work?” He picks up a string of colorful hangable letters, and shows them to Bossuet.

“Yes,’ says Bossuet. “But only if we were celebrating Cosette’s birthday.”

Enjolras sighs. “How the hell did Courfeyrac even get custom decorations on such short notice, anyway?” They’ve reached the end of the aisle, and he goes to head back down it. Bossuet doesn’t bother turning the cart, and they end up doing an odd dance where Enjolras steers and smiles complacently at the gaping shoppers as they roll the car backwards down the aisle.

“I think he knows a guy,” says Bossuet. “Or Eponine knows a guy.”

“Eponine,” Enjolras agrees. “Definitely Eponine.”

Bossuet shrugs. “I’m pretty sure we could grab something with a ‘t’ and an ‘e’ and just bastardize it for those letters.”

Enjolras stops the cart. “Or,” he say slowly. “We could get some construction paper and write ‘t’ and ‘e’ on that.”

Bossuet blinks. “No, see, that wouldn’t really work with the whole feeling Courfeyrac is going for, I think. Um. Enjolras?”

Enjolras doesn’t stop rolling the cart towards the section bearing paper. “Yes?”

“Can you possibly not kill me with a cart?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re so freaked out about,” he says, turning the cart sharply to avoid a small child clutching a balloon.

“Yeah, me neither,” Bossuet manages, sounding faint. When Enjolras stops them in front of the construction paper, he steps off of the cart with shaking legs. “Let’s never do that again, though.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes, but nods. “Okay? What color do you think?”

Bossuet mumbles something about his luck, and turns to look at the selection. “Probably buying a whole pack is cheaper.”

“We don’t even need this cart,” Enjolras mutters, grabbing a stack of paper. “Come on.” He gets about two steps before Bossuet’s phone rings.

“It’s Combeferre,” he says. “Let me just--” He puts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Enjolras glances about the aisle, until his eyes catch a display filled with sketchbooks. He thinks about Grantaire, the little smudges of lead marring his skin, and wants very suddenly to hold the book in his hand. Bossuet is distracted with Combeferre, so it’s not hard to take the next few steps and pick one up, opening to a page and smoothing a hand along the off-white paper. He’s no artist, certainly, so he has no idea what to even begin to look for, but he can’t help but imagine the way Grantaire’s fingers could paint the page with all sorts of things; he can’t help but imagine the _other_ things Grantaire’s fingers could do, too, and ends up flushing all the way up to the tips of his ears.

“Yeah, I’m with Enjolras--what are you doing?” comes Bossuet’s voice, trailing through Enjolras’ train of thought and shattering the image.

Enjolras jumps, visibly startled, and slams the sketchbook shut. “Nothing,” he says. “Shopping--what did you want?” He lifts on hand to rub at the back of his neck and shifts the sketchbook behind his back.

Bossuet’s grin could probably be described as shit-eating. “We’re being told that we need dry ice,” he says calmly, but with an underlying thread of absolute mirth.

Enjolras blinks. “Dry ice,” he repeats. “Why the fuck do we need dry ice?”

Bossuet pulls the phone away from his ear with a wince. “Eponine says there’s a store on the way home,” he says. “We just have to go grab it.”

Enjolras keeps blinking. “Okay,” he says. “So, um, on a scale of one to ten, how much am I going to regret this decision to help you?”

Bossuet just grins at him and says, into the phone, “Will do, ‘Ponine.”

Which is how Enjolras ends up driving what Bossuet assures him is not a getaway car and hightailing it out of a dark parking-lot with a trunk load of dry ice and a new appreciation for the simpler things like tea and babysitting and _not_ _befriending crazy people_.

“Oh, come now, Enjolras,” crows Bossuet. “I’m not crazy, really. You wound me.”

Enjolras just tightens his hold on the steering wheel and refuses to look away from the wheel.

“Also, you hate tea.”

“I do not,” Enjolras snaps back.

“You drank it when your throat hurt,” Bossuet goes on to say. “But even then, Cosette had to practically drug you.”

 “Yeah, not important,” says Enjolras.

“Aw,” says Bossuet. “You’re not fun when you’re angry.” He reaches over the gearshift to slip a hand into Enjolras’ pockets.

“What are you doing?”

“Phoning a friend,” Bossuet tells him, grinning, and  pulling out his phone. “You really ought to lock this thing.”

Enjolras shoots him a dark look. “Who’re you phoning,” he says, when Bossuet sets the phone down on the dashboard and it starts ringing. “Bossuet--”

“R!” Bossuet says loudly, over Enjolras. “How are you this evening?”

“What!” Enjolras nearly shrieks before Grantaire’s voice comes wafting into the air.

“Bossuet?” he says. “Why do you have Enjolras’ phone?”

“He doesn’t have my phone,” says Enjolras. “I have my phone. What he does have, sadly, is my friendship--”

Bossuet makes a wounded noise. “Again,” he says. “Wounding me.”

“Please stop talking,” says Enjolras, wanting very much to put his head in his hands. “Where am I taking this dry ice?”

“Dry ice?” says Grantaire. “Why do you have dry ice?”

Enjolras takes his hand off the wheel briefly to gesture at Bossuet. “You’re the one who called him,” he says.

“We’re taking it to Courfeyrac’s,” his friend says. “I’m relatively sure, and uh--Joly!” he picks up his phone, which Enjolras is relatively certain had not actually buzzed, and after tapping the face of it a bit desperately, and brings it to his ear. “No I’m not busy.”

“So, dry ice?” says Grantaire. Enjolras gets the feeling that he’s grinning.

“Courfeyrac’s party,” he says. “Or Marius’.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” He shifts the car over a few lanes and starts plotting a course for Courfeyrac’s house. “You’re coming, right?”

Grantaire is quiet for a long moment. “Why are you asking?”

Enjolras casts a quick look at Bossuet, who seems rather absorbed in his conversation with Joly. His friend catches his eye, and grins at him, giving him a quick thumbs up.

“Because I’m going,” Enjolras says. “And Cosette is going. And I want-- _need_ you there.” He’s not quite sure what sort of messages he’s sending with that sentence, but he homes Grantaire gets the general idea.

“Then yes, I am going.” Grantaire sounds like he’s being very careful. “I assume you will need a ride?”

Enjolras yawns. “Cosette will probably demand the car,” he agrees. “And there’s no way I’m showing up to a party with my baby sister driving.”

“Cosette would probably take issue with you calling her ‘baby,’” says Grantaire.

“Cosette will always be my baby sister,” says Enjolras. “End of story.”

Grantaire laughs. “Of course.”

 Enjolras’ lips twitch, but it’s Bossuet who interrupts. “Hey, R, while I have you, do you think you could bring some of the good stuff?”

Enjolras blinks. “What?”

Grantaire sounds tentative. “Perhaps,” he says, slowly.

“What?” Enjolras repeats.

“Cool,” says Bossuet, once into the phone. He puts his hand over the phone. “Cool.”

“What?” Enjolras says again, voice a tad bit harder.

“Aw, come on,” says Bossuet. “Live a little, Enjolras. It could be fun!”

\--

The party is about as noisy as Enjolras expects it to be. It is, of course, at Courfeyrac’s house. There is no way Courfeyrac’s parents are going to be okay with the very rapid state of disarray it is descending into, and it is _loud_. The dry ice is being put to use, coating the backyard and the swing set that Combeferre once pushed Enjolras off for pulling Cosette’s hair. There is music pulsing in and out of the windows and doors, and people milling about when they push open the door, but somehow Enjolras doesn’t lose Grantaire.

“Wow, okay,” says Grantaire. “This is in fact a party.”

Enjolras pulls the door shut behind them. “Did you doubt that, somehow?” He spots Bossuet’s make-shift ‘for my lovely Cosette’ sign, and smirks at the way it’s obviously been partially pulled down by the girl in question.

“No,” Grantaire says. He manages to set down a cooler before they’re descended upon.

“Grantaire, Enjolras, hi,” says Courfeyrac, hair in a sticking up everywhere and eyes more than a little wild. He comes sweeping down the stairs to stand in front of them holding what looks like ice water. “Oh, you brought it, um. Bossuet did mention--” he breaks off, sounding rather panicked. “That’s, um--”

Bahorel and Feuilly don’t let him finish, sweeping past him to take hold of Grantaire’s arms. “R,” says Bahorel joyously. “Brought the good stuff, I presume?”

“Er,” says Grantaire.

“Of course he did!” says Feuilly. “You could wake up married after a few of these.” He meets Enjolras’ eyes, and winks. Not even Grantaire’s sputtering can prevent the flush that creeps up Enjolras’ neck, and he very studiously goes to inspect the paintings that Courfeyrac’s family has hanging on the wall.

“Hey, um, Courfeyrac?” he says, not looking away from what his eyes are telling him is an original.

His friend comes over to stand next to him, leaving Bahorel and Feuilly to drag both the cooler and Grantaire off into the crowd. “Yeah?” He sounds no less panicked, and Enjolras puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you want me to go lock these in your parents’ room?”

Courfeyrac shoots him a relieved look. “Yes, please,” he says.

“How many people did you even invite?” Enjolras asks him, unhooking one of the paintings.

Courfeyrac comes to help him take them down, setting down his drink. “Just our friends,” he says, resigned. “But you know our friends.”

Enjolras’ lips twitch. “Right,” he says. He takes the paintings under his arm and heads for the stairs. “Key in the usual place?”

Courfeyrac smiles at him gratefully. “Yeah,” he says, picking up his drink and giving it a scrupulous once-over.

“Probably shouldn’t drink that.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Oh, um, Cosette is having fun, at least?”

Enjolras pauses. “Is she?” he says, his voice going a little bland.

Courfeyrac’s shoulders visibly raise. “Ah, yeah. She thought it was sweet?”

Enjolras sighs. “It really was, wasn’t it?”

Courfeyrac’s smile almost turns into a smirk. “She is definitely keeping Marius,” he says. “And you and R--”

“Grantaire and I are none of your business,” Enjolras finishes for him. “First door on the right, right?”

“Uh, yeah--” Courfeyrac starts to say before Grantaire interrupts.

“None of his business, are we?”

Enjolras’ head swings down to look at him, leaning against the stairs with a can in his hand and a loose smirk curling around his lips. Enjolras’ mouth is suddenly very dry. He licks his lips and shifts his grip on the paintings. “Right door?” he repeats.

“Uh, yeah,” says Courfeyrac, glancing between the two of them quickly. “I’m just going to go, make sure no one breaks anything.” He darts off, glass still in hand, and Enjolras can’t even be too angry at him for taking one frantic sip as he reaches the kitchen.

Grantaire gives the paintings in Enjolras’ hand a look. “You need help with those?”

Enjolras manages to get his vocal chords to cooperate. “If you don’t mind?”

Grantaire doesn’t let go of his drink and hurries up to stand next to Enjolras on the stairs. “Lead the way,” he says, taking hold of the paintings. Their hands brush and Enjolras has to work very hard to get them up the stairs and walking towards Courfeyrac’s parents’ room.

“So this thing,” says Grantaire as they round a corner and start making their way down the hallway. “This thing where you go all wobbly whenever I so much as blink at you.”

“I resent that,” Enjolras says, pretending he’s not blushing. “I do not wobble.”

Enjolras can’t tell without looking, but he thinks a smile is tugging at the corners of Grantaire’s mouth. He waits a moment. “So this thing where you go all wobbly when I so much as blink at you,” he says again, ignoring the way Enjolras frowns at him. “Is it going to become a thing?”

“Is this thing,” says Enjolras slowly, to be certain, “going to become a thing?”

Grantaire’s eyes follow the trajectory of that sentence in the air in front of them for a moment. “Yes,” he says slowly. “That about sums it up.”

Enjolras shifts a hand free of their bundle and opens Courfeyrac’s parents’ bedroom. “Stop talking,” he says. “You’re not making any sense at all.”

Grantaire sputters a bit. “Hey, hold on,” he says. “That made perfect sense in my head!”

Enjolras sets the paintings down on the bed. “‘In your mind’ being the operant words.” His hands settle into the bedspread, and he finds himself gripping the fabric for a bit before he catches himself.

Grantaire hums. “Okay,” he says, coming over to stand next to the bed. “But you’re still not denying it.” He worms his way into Enjolras’ space, sets his drink down on the bedside table, and rests both his arms on Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras’ knees buckle. “See,” says Grantaire. “Wobbly.”

Enjolras wants to bite him. “I am not wobbly,” he settles for saying, grudgingly. His hands somehow find their way to Grantaire’s hips, which, actually, is pretty damn fabulous.

“You most certainly are,” says Grantaire, stepping even closer. He makes a delicious noise in the back of his throat. Enjolras wonders what that sound tastes like.

Grantaire makes an odd noise, eyes suddenly caught on Enjolras’ mouth.

“Did I say that outloud?” Enjolras breathes, his own eyes focused on Grantaire’s lips. “Because that was not supposed to happen--”

Grantaire’s mouth is sticky sweet, warm, and pressed to his own before he can finish his sentence. Enjolras sighs, his eyes falling to half mast, and uses their minute height difference to his full advantage. “I’m taller than you,” he breathes into Grantaire’s mouth when they break apart, messy and gasping. “I’m actually taller than you. Who even knew--”

“I knew,” Grantaire says over the tail end of his words. “Stop talking.”

“Yeah, okay,” Enjolras agrees. “I can do that.” He works a hand at the hem of Grantaire’s shirt until he finds bare skin, and can’t help himself when he crawls his way up Grantaire’s shoulder blades with just a touch of nail. “That’s a good pla--”

“You’re still talking,” Grantaire tells his nose, before he slots their mouths together and sucks Enjolras’ tongue into his mouth. The noise Enjolras makes is horrifying, and he says as much in their next break for air.

“Illegal,” Grantaire corrects biting him on his jaw. “I think you meant illegal.”

“Noises can’t be illegal,” Enjolras protests, hooking a foot around Grantaire’s ankle and pull him flush against him. Grantaire groans, long and low, and Enjolras’ heart goes staccato in his chest. “Never mind,” he says.

Grantaire grins. “Wobbly,” he singsongs, and trips Enjolras onto the bed, onto Courfeyrarc’s parents’ bed, actually, which is probably not good. But then, Enjolras is having trouble remembering anything beyond Grantaire’s name, at this point, because Grantaire has found his pulse point and is wreaking havoc on the skin there.

“Are you leaving marks?” Enjolras says, head falling back against the bed. “People will talk if you leave marks.”

Grantaire scrapes his teeth against his Adam’s apple, and his breath stutters to a quick start and stop. “What will they say?” he purrs.

Enjolras shifts a little on the bed so he can try to kick off his shoes. “Good things?” He winds a hand in Grantaire’s hair and tugs. “Bad things?” Grantaire’s fingers have found his hips, and the not quite gentle stroke of them against his hip bones is maddening. “ _Things_?” His voice breaks into an embarrassing half squeak. “I don’t know--Gran _taire_!”

Grantaire actually has the gall to stop what he’s doing and look up at him. “Yes?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Enjolras breathes. “So--so very much going to kill you.”

“You are so wobbly,” Grantaire repeats, pulling back so that they’re nose to nose. “Wibbly-wobbly--” He breaks off, suddenly gleeful, and reaches down to ruffle Enjolras’ hair. “Enjolrasdoodle.”

This time, Enjolras does bite him, which turns into wet, bruising kisses against whatever part of skin he can reach craning his neck, and Grantaire sighs.

“I’m not a dog,” Enjolras says softly.

“You most certainly are not,” agrees Grantaire. Enjolras isn’t quite sure, but he’s pretty sure Grantaire would agree to anything at this point. He should not find that hot. “But you have to admit,” Grantaire adds, eyes flipping half-lidded. “You do rather resemble one with your hair like that.”

“With my hair like that,” Enjolras repeats.

Grantaire nods, grinning down at him dopily. He leans down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ nose

“Oh my god, get off me,” Enjolras groans, giddy with amusement and something else. “You idiot, stop!”

Grantaire keep mouthing at his jawbone. “Okay,” he says. “But do you really want me to?”

“Yes!” Enjolras gets out, laughter starting to color his tone.

“You sure?” says Grantaire. He presses his hips down a bit. “Absolutely, positively certain?”

The slow grind of his hips is some sort of sadistic torture, and Enjolras finds it very hard to say, “Abso-- _oh_ \--absolutely.”

Grantaire doesn’t stop. “You sound tentative,” he says. “We can’t have that. Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of lawyer wannabe?”

Enjolras tries to laugh, but ends up with some sort of hybrid moan thing. “Lawyer wannabe?” he repeats. “That’s a new one.” He gets a hand around Grantaire’s waist and uses it to push their hips more solidly together.

“I live to surprise you,” Grantaire says breathlessly. He kisses him again, gently, and sets both of his arms down to bracket Enjolras’ head. “Fuck that’s morbid.”

Enjolras blinks. “Morbid how?” he tries to say, at the same time Courfeyrac’s voice comes shrieking into the room, ruining the mood soundly.

“Oh my _god_ you are--you are actually--that is my _parents’ bed_ \--Enjolras!” His voice gets dangerously high at the end, and Enjolras envies the way Grantaire hides his face against his shoulder.

“Um,” he says. “Hi?”

“I trusted you!” Courfeyrac goes on to say.

Grantaire heaves out a long sigh, and very slowly starts to crawl his way off of Enjolras, who rolls so that he’s sitting. “Sorry?”

“You’re not even really dating!” Courfeyrac continues, voice cracking a little.

Every nerve in Enjolras’ body goes tight, and before he can say anything, Grantaire is moving, coiled like a guitar string and pushing his way past Courfeyrac and out of the room without a word, leaving his drink next to the bed.

“Fuck,” says Courfeyrac in the ensuing silence. “Enjolras, I’m sorry.”

Enjolras reaches for the cup and gives it a considering swirl. “Not your fault,” he says, and they both ignore the way his voice sounds like it’s fighting to get out of his throat. “What do you suppose he put in this?”

“What do I--you mean that’s Grantaire’s drink?”

“Did you think it was mine?” Enjolras replies dryly, giving the drink another quick shake.

“Well, no,” Courfeyrac admits. “But I mean--hang on don’t _drink_ it.”

He finishes about the same time as Enjolras swallows, and goes faintly pink. Enjolras licks his lips. “Not bad,” he says. “I thought it would be stronger.”

“Yeah, okay, you did only just take a sip,” Courfeyrac says.

Enjolras stares at him, and, without looking away, downs the whole thing. That burns a little on the way down and leaves him feeling faintly woozy.

“Right, you just go downstairs and try not to break anything,” says Courfeyrac, coming into the room and grabbing Enjolras by the arm. He grabs the empty cup from him and chucks it in his room’s trash can as they pass it.

“I’m not going to break anything,” Enjolras says reasonably, and snags another drink on their way down the stairs. The kid holding it doesn’t so much as blink, gives him a high five and goes back to smiling at the girl standing with him.

Courfeyrac watches the exchange with a growing look of horror on his face. “’Okay, so you just go hang out with Bahorel in the kitchen,” he says. “I’m going to go call Combeferre.” He says the last bit gravely, almost as if giving bad news.

Enjolras stares back at him, shaking his head and sipping from his stolen drink. “Okay,” he says slowly, between sips. “I promise not to break anything.”

Courfeyrac just pats him awkwardly on the back, and doesn’t take his eyes off the drink in Enjolras’ hand.

“Seriously, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras continues. “I’m _fine_.”

\--

Enjolras is more than fine, several moments later, and he tries to tell Courfeyrac this, but he can’t find him. He can’t find anyone, for that matter, because when he opens his eyes it burns and everything is black.

“I’m blind,” he tries to say, but his mouth feels very stiff so he’s not sure if it’s properly forming the words. He says them again, for good measure. “I’m blind. Is--did Grantaire make me blind, again?”

Someone--Feuilly?--laughs at him. Which, okay, Enjolras is not okay with that. He turns, sort of, to try to find the person, but everything is still dark and probably he should stop turning. Someone puts a hand on his arm.

“My head hurts,” he says. “Also, why’s it so dark?”

“You’re wearing a blindfold, Enjolras,” says Combeferre. He’s the someone, and Enjolras isn’t sure why he’s even surprised. He hadn’t realized that Combeferre was at the party, though.

“You’re here!” he says. “Did you find Courfeyrac he was--he wanted to talk to you--early-- _earlier--_ do you like worms, ‘ferre?”

The hand on his shoulder loosens considerably, and when Combeferre speaks again, he sounds like he’s laughing. “He did,” he says. “He also said you were well on your way to drunk, which I would not have believed if I could not see it.”

Enjolras grins at him, and then, frowning, turns a little bit more, just in case. “I’m grinning at you,” he explains, slowly, trying to get his legs to stop. “Not anybody else.”

“Right,” says Combeferre, slowly. “There a reason he’s wearing a blindfold?”

“Pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey!” shouts Bahorel.

Enjolras starts to wince because Bahorel is loud, but then he remembers that he _is_ playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. “Where’s the tail?” he says.

“This?” says Combeferre, which isn’t helpful because Enjolras can’t see. “Sorry, here,” Combeferre amends, handing him something that feels soft, and felty, and nothing like a tail at all.

“This isn’t a tail,” Enjolras says, sulking, but walks forward anyway. “This is like, felt or something.” He tries leaning forward, but that only serves to make his stomach go all wibbly-wobbly, and that in turn reminds him of _Grantaire_ , so instead he just shuffles forward until his toes hit something. The board, maybe? He thinks he remembers Eponine drawing a donkey on a board? He reaches out with his hand, and sticks the fake-tail onto it. “There,” he says, nodding.

There is a short silence.

“Holy shit,” says Bahorel.

“Oh my god,” says Feuilly.

“What the fuck did you give him?” says Combeferre.

Enjolras frowns at them. “Did I do bad?” he says, trying to get the blindfold off and failing.

“Um,” says Combeferre. He comes over and helps Enjolras with the knot at the back of his head. “Why is this so tight?”

“He kept taking it off,” says Bahorel. “Complaining about how it was dark and something about R.” Combeferre peels the material away from Enjorlas’ face and Enjolras blinks, blearily, over at Bahorel. Their friend is nursing his own drink, and when he meets Enjolras’ eyes, he nearly grimaces. “And I think they had a fight or something, because that just got him maudlin and trying to steal everyone’s drinks.”

“You don’t have nice drinks,” Enjolras protests. “They taste funny.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is watered down,” Feuilly says, mildly. “He sort of downed R’s drink.”

Combeferre sighs. “He’s been drinking things Grantaire mixed,” he says, slowly. Enjolras stares at him, waiting for him to keep talking. When he doesn’t, he peers around him.

“Hey, I won,” he says, looking at the board. It is a board; he pats himself on the back. The fake-tail is sitting soundly where it should be. Enjolras grins. “Ha,” he says. “I won.”

Feuilly and Bahorel are shaking their heads. “He’s been doing that for like the past half hour,” says Feuilly. “We thought it was a fluke, but it’s getting to be uncanny.”

Combeferre sighs. “I should probably take him home,” he says.

Enjolras frowns. “But I won,” he repeats. “I don’t want to go home.” He looks up at Combeferre, whose lips are twitching. Enjolras grins back, because he can’t help it. Combeferre looks like he’s trying very hard not to smile.

“Doesn’t your head hurt?” he says softly.

Enjolras frowns harder. “No,” he says petulantly, and looks away from his friend. His eyes land on the donkey, and he grins. “I won,” he repeats, looking around at the group. “I want to tell Grantaire.”

There is a beat. Enjolras uses that beat to start walking in the direction of the kitchen. Grantaire had been in the kitchen last, making drinks. Grantaire hadn’t wanted to give Enjolras a drink, but Feuilly had gotten him one anyway. Grantaire had been angry, and Enjolras hated it when Grantaire was angry.

“Wait, hold on,” says Bahorel from behind him, and tries to grab Enjolras by the arm. Enjolras glares at him and pulls his arm away, stumbling closer to the kitchen, and catching himself on the doorframe. “Enjolras, um, that’s not the best idea--”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras says, much louder than he intends. “Grantaire look I wo--” he breaks off, uncertain, and trying to get his eyes to adjust. “Grantaire?”

“Oh shit, _fuck_ ,” says Feuilly.

“Godammit,” says Combeferre.

“We should--we’ll just, come _here_ ,” says Bahorel, and then the three of them fade away to whispers. Not that Enjolras cares. He’s too busy staring at Grantaire.

Grantaire is--Enjolras supposed _making out_ is the only proper term for this, but he’s too confused to put that into words. “R?” he manages hoarsely. It’s terrifying how sobering the scene in front of him is, watching someone else lick their way into Grantaire’s mouth and leave biting marks all down his throat. It makes him sick to his stomach. “What are you doing?”

Grantaire pulls back with a broken, horrified, sounding noise, and the guy in question--Enjolras has no idea who he even is--doesn’t so much as blink, just picks up his abandoned drink and leaves them be.

“He yours?” he says on his way out, stopping with one hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. The point of contact is like a brand of heat against Enjolras’ skin, but he nods, faintly. “Mm,” says the guy. “He’s a fabulous kisser.”

Enjolras feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, which isn’t helping much with the nausea.

“Um,” says Grantaire. “Did you want another drink?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Did I want another drink?” he repeats. His brain feels like it’s still spinning, and he frowns. “I--what were you doing?”

“You’d think you’d never kissed anyone before,” says Grantaire, trying for lightness or something, and not meeting Enjolras’ eyes. He knows that’s not true, and so does Grantaire.

“You know I--have,” says Enjolras, fighting to make sense of the conversation. “Why, why were you doing that?”

“Kissing,” says Grantaire slowly. “I thought we’d established that?”

“No, I _know_ that,” Enjolras says, and really it’d be nice if his brain would stop doing whatever it is it thinks it’s doing and join the conversation. “But _why_ were you doing that?”

“Kissing,” repeats Grantaire. “Well, I don’t have to explain to you how good it feels.”

“Can you stop... saying that?”

“What, kissing?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Why, does it make you jealous?”

Enjolras blinks. That would explain the rather hollow feeling in the back of his chest and the way he wanted to claw the guys eyes out.

“Oh my god, Enjolras, you _are_ _jealous_ ,” says Grantaire, laughing. Why is he laughing? Nothing about this situation is funny.

Enjolras glares at him, and tries to say as much. “’s not funny,” he mutters. “Stop that.”

Grantaire swipes at a few tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. Enjolras tries to glare harder. “I just think there’s some sort of terrible irony in this,” says Grantaire. “You being jealous because some random guy kissed me. There’s got to be a punchline in there somewhere.”

“Punchline,” Enjolras agrees happily, because punching the guy would be a good idea. But then his brain informs him of the actual meaning of that sentence, and he scowls. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“No,” says Grantaire carefully, like he’s walking on eggshells. He doesn’t move, or anything, but Enjolras very subtly tries to look down at their feet. There aren’t any eggshells. “Should I be?”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Yes,” he says finally, nodding.

“Why?” says Grantaire, still all eggshell-like. Enjolras looks down again, because maybe there’s something Grantaire knows that he doesn’t?

Grantaire asked him something, but he’s not sure what it was. He feels bad, and tries to smile at him apologetically. “What?”

Grantaire coughs something out that sounds sort of like ‘god you’re adorable,’ but says, “Why should I be serious about this?”

Enjolras blinks. “Because you’re dating me?” he says. “You shouldn’t make out with other people when you’re dating me?” He waits a bit. “That’s not a question. I don’t know why I made it a question--you shouldn’t make out with other people when you’re dating me.”

He smiles at Grantaire, but Grantaire isn’t smiling. “But I’m not dating you,” says Grantaire, still slowly. “And your sister left a few hours ago with Marius.”

Enjolras thinks he should be concerned about that, but he can’t be bothered. “Oh,” he says, feeling very small. “But--you shouldn’t make out with other people, still?” he tries, because Grantaire shouldn’t be making out with other people. He just _shouldn’t_.

Grantaire blinks at him; it’s possibly Enjolras shouted that at him. “Why?” he says again, his voice almost raising and going very deadly.

Enjolras would normally heed warnings like that, but instead he stumbles his way further into the kitchen. “You can’t, you don’t, why would you do that to me?”

“To you?” Grantaire repeats, his voice still dangerous. He’s not looking away from Enjolras’ face.

“Yes!” says Enjolras loudly, on purpose this time, because Grantaire kissed someone else! Grantaire--Grantaire let someone else bite at his neck and grind against his thighs and it’s playing on a terrible, Technicolor loop in Enjolras’ head and he can’t make it _stop_. “You--why would you do that?!” He sounds like some sort of broken record, but he can’t figure out how to make other words form.

“How could I--Enjolras.” Grantaire sounds pained, which makes no sense, since he isn’t the one with his heart slowly splitting open and wailing all the while. “We’re not _really_ dating! You know this?”

Enjolras does know this, but there’s something important about that that he feels like he should address and he can’t remember what it is. “But,” he repeats. “But you’re only supposed to make out with me!” He tries to grab Grantaire by the shoulders, misses, and ends up slipping and near falling on his face. Grantaire catches him, and they end up staring at each other, chest to chest. This is nice, Enjolras thinks.

“You don’t own me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says slowly, softly, with something brewing behind his eyes. “We should probably have this conversation when you’re sober. Combeferre!” he raises his voice after, and he starts to let go of Enjolras’ arms, and Enjolras cannot handle this, cannot have him leaving, because something is dying in his chest and he can’t make it stop. And so he twists, desperately in Grantaire’s grip, and tries desperately to find his eyes, and grabs frantically for his wrist, stopping him. He needs to get Grantaire to _stop_. He doesn’t know how, though, which is the problem, and Grantaire is just looking at him with tired, resigned eyes--like he can’t quite believe Enjolras is real, like he can’t quite believe Enjolras would _want_ him, and he said Enjolras didn’t own him, but how can that be true when something in Enjolras is practically screaming for him.

“What did you say?” he manages, hoarsely.

“You don’t own me,” Grantaire repeats, voice all careful again, and that’s a lie. That’s not, that can’t be right and Grantaire knows that and _Enjolras_ knows that and Grantaire is _walking away_ \--

“No, wait,” he cries, fighting off Combeferre, who has reappeared at his side and has taken a hold of his arm and is _holding him back_. “Wait, Grantaire!”

“You don’t own me, Enjolras!” Grantaire shouts finally, stopping and looking back at him, eyes furious and broken. “You don’t! Okay!”

Enjolras gets his arm free of Combeferre, and everyone in the house is looking at them now but he doesn’t care. “Two hundred bucks says I do,” he shouts desperately, because that’s true, isn’t it? There’s something in his head about two hundred dollars but he can’t quite keep up with it because when he reaches Grantaire, Grantaire actually _flinches away from him_.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he snarls, and he sounds like he means it, and when Enjolras tries anyway he wrenches his arm free and goes storming out of the house. Enjolras is following him because he has to, and the alcohol in his system is suddenly making him feel sick to the bone but he doesn’t care, doesn’t think about anything until he is standing on Courfeyrac’s lawn watching as Grantaire goes striding for his motorcycle. He takes hold of the second helmet, and throws it on the ground, fuming, and notices Enjolras. “Why are you even here?” he snaps. “Go home, Enjolras. Cosette left hours ago, there’s no reason for me to even _be here_.”

“What does that even mean!” shouts Enjolras, because Grantaire is shouting and Grantaire is leaving, and his chest feels like someone is slowly caving it in.

“Shall I put it into normal couple words!” shouts Grantaire, and Enjolras thinks he’s crying, actually, before he slams his own helmet onto his head and gets onto the bike. “We’re _over_.”

And then he’s gone, roaring away with his headlights shining so bright that Enjolras feels it in his skull, leaving Enjolras standing brokenly on Courfeyrac’s lawn.

\--

“Let’s get you home,” says Combeferre, when he comes out to stand next to him a few moments later.

“Grantaire?” says Enjolras.

“Feuilly and Bahorel are going after him. Once they’re sober enough to drive.” He waits a moment for that to sink in. “Come on, home?” Enjolras doesn’t move. “Please?”

Enjolras turns to look at him, and Combeferre’s eyes soften. “What did I do?” he says hoarsely. “I thought I fixed it. What did I do?”

“Oh, Enjolras,” says Combeferre quietly, taking him by the shoulders and pulling him in for a hug.

“Am I crying?” says Enjolras brokenly, staring down hard at Combeferre’s shoes. “I think I’m crying.”

Combeferre laughs, but it’s shell of a thing. “You are,” he says.

“Oh,” says Enjolras hollowly. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Okay,” says Combeferre. And then, “wait, what--!” as Enjolras leans down, and throws up on his shoes.

\--

The drive home is silent, but Enjolras isn’t sure if that’s because he’s still crying, or because Combeferre had to borrow a pair or Courfeyrac’s shoes and the only pair Courfeyrac was willing to risk happened to be neon.

When they get back to Enjolras’ house, Cosette is there to meet them. Enjolras guesses that Combeferre called her, and he manages to somewhat thank him, before Cosette is gathering him into her arms and dragging him up the stairs and into his bed.

She strips him of his clothes quietly, and tucks the covers up to his chin. Enjolras catches her wrist before she can leave. “He hates me, Cosette,” he says, quietly.

Cosette stares down at him for a long moment. “No,” she says finally. “He really doesn’t, though.”

Enjolras tries to laugh at her, but it sounds so pitiful that he ends up curling into himself and burrowing under the covers.

“Oh, Enjolras,” he sister says to him, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Everything will be okay. You’ll see.”

Enjolras just closes his eyes, and wishes very hard for sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please go read about adorable [baby Enjolras](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/51320844130/so-in-chapter-6-there-is-talk-of-enjolras-baby-photos#notes) to feel better about this, I am sorry, again, sorry. I PROMISE I AM FIXING THEM. I PROMISE IT IS HAPPENING IT HAS BEEN END GOAL SINCE THE BEGINNING TO FIX THEM.
> 
> Actually, a real question. I'm planning on writing Grantaire's POV of some of the stuff from this, so if you guys want to shoot me an ask on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/) with a request for his POV of something from this, let me know.


	8. But most of all, I hate that I don’t hate you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you're following me on tumblr you know that _I finished the fic, guys!_ It's done! It's all ready to be beated and then I will have officially written a novel. 
> 
> Beated by bardofrats and kat. All other mistakes are my own.

**8\. But most of all, I hate that I don’t hate you.**

\--

The first thing Enjolras becomes aware of when he wakes that morning is the tangle of blankets strangling his legs. It’s unbearably hot, and so he twists and flails a bit in the moments before fully wakening, and ends up on the floor.

At which point the pounding in his temples makes itself known. “Oh my god,” he groans, fighting to get a hand free to press at the ache in his head. “What did I _do_ last night?” Because for one moment, his mind is blessedly blank. But then, of course, he remembers--and with that aching, horrible, swarm of memories (had he actually _said_ that?), his stomach decides to make itself known.

Enjolras goes stumbling out of his bedroom and into the bathroom with the kind of terrible panic that only nausea can inspire. The headache is nothing compared to the sudden roiling of his stomach and the sudden sweat on his brow, and he goes to his knees in front of the toilet, leaning down and heaving.

Someone puts a hand on the back of his neck, and Enjolras takes the given support easily, coughing brokenly and reaching up to flush the toilet. There is a cup of water being presented to him when he finishes, and he takes it gratefully, turning to look at his saviour.

It’s not his sister.

“You seem surprised,” says his father. Enjolras gapes a little, and takes a sip from the glass. Valjean stares back at him, eyes crinkling a little in the corners.

“Um,” says Enjolras. “Hi?”

“I’d say good morning,” his father replies. “But I think we can both agree I’d be lying.”

Enjolras winces. “I don’t think I really intended to get as drunk as I did,” he says. “Or at all, actually.”

“I never thought you had,” says Valjean. He gets to his feet, holding out a hand for Enjolras, who takes it and lets his father haul him to his feet. “Now, are you going to tell me why?”

Enjolras makes a face. “It’s a stupid reason,” he says, to disguise the sudden ache in his chest. “Terribly high-school.”

Valjean laughs. “Contrary to popular belief,” he says. “You are actually in high school. Never mind how much you constantly attempt to prove otherwise.”

Enjolras scowls. “It’s a long story, then.”

Valjean blinks at him. “Your sister is out with Marius today. And we have the entire weekend,” he says, reasonably.

That throws Enjolras for a loop. “What?” he says. “For a date?”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

They’ve reached the top of the stairs, and Enjolras stares down them with a sinking feeling in his chest. “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he says, as his stomach gives another horrible groan.

“Live a little,” says his father.

They make it, miraculously, and Enjolras ends up sitting at the kitchen counter nursing a glass of water. “A real date?” he repeats.

Valjean looks up from the fridge. “I’m starting to worry about brain damage,” he says. “How much did you drink?”

“Enough,” Enjolras mutters, remembering vividly the horrible flush to Grantaire’s cheeks and the way he had physically pulled away from Enjolras’ fingers. 

Valjean makes a noise in the back of his throat and comes around to sit across from Enjolras. “Are you going to tell me what happened to get you into that state?”

“I said it was a long story.”

“I said we had the weekend.” They stare at each other blankly before Valjean sighs. “You remind me of your mother when you’re like this,” he says finally. “Stubborn to the bone.”

Enjolras stares down at his coffee, brooding. If it’s a choice between talking about Grantaire or Fantine, he’ll take Grantaire any day. “I broke up with Grantaire,” he says finally.

Valjean’s lips purse. “Okay,” he says. “And that was worthy of getting horribly drunk?”

“No, see,” Enjolras tries to start. He ends up scowling down at the table, angry. “I wasn’t ever really dating him to begin with?”

Valjean doesn’t say anything. He’s letting Enjolras take charge of the conversation, which is surprising and comforting all the same.

“I mean, I was, which was entirely the problem, I realize, but I sort of thought we’d solved that.” That doesn’t feel right, because some pretty awesome phone sex and somewhat rushed, coded discussion was in no way solving it, but Enjolras can’t very well explain that with his father.

“Explain to me how you weren’t but were dating?”

“You said Cosette could only date if I did,” Enjolras replies. “And she really liked Marius so I figured I could take one for the team.”

Valjean is shaking his head before he finishes. “You two,” he says. “I don’t think you’ve ever not been on each other’s sides.”

“I don’t know,” says Enjolras. “She left me here with you.”

“Hey!” says Valjean.

“No, but, it was nice talking to you about this.”

Valjean raises his eyebrows at him. “Oh?” he says.

“Yeah.” Enjolras drains his glass with a soft little smile.

“You don’t think this is the end of the conversation, do you?”

Enjolras frowns. “I need to talk to Grantaire,” he decides finally. “I said some pretty horrible things last night.”

Valjean frowns right back at him. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he says. “You were pretty broken up about it too, if the hangover says anything. He’s not completely in the clear.”

Enjolras makes some sort of horrible combination of laughter and tears. “He is though,” he says. “I paid him to date me, and when it became clear that my feelings were--” He breaks off, searching for the word. “ _Compromised_ , I should have told him explicitly.”

“Compromised,” says Valjean, distastefully. He avoids the obvious question, though, so Enjolras isn’t too angry.

“That’s not the right word, and I know it,” says Enjolras. “But he’s just--under my skin, Dad, and I don’t even know how to properly put that into words.”

Valjean shakes his head. “Oh, Enjolras,” he says, and _nothing_ more.

“Last night was awful,” Enjolras continues, sighing, after a short breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever had my foot that far down my throat before.”

Valjean looks like he’s trying not to smile.

“What?”

“Nothing,” says his father. “Just, you’ve never had a shortage of words before; I am reveling in it.”

Enjolras glares at him. “I’m glad my love life is a source of amusement for you,” he snaps.

Valjean raises an eyebrow.

“I mean thank you,” says Enjolras. “For listening. But I think I need to make a phone call.”

“Mhmm,” says Valjean. “More water?”

“Um, yeah.” Enjolras swallows.

“That’s fine,” says his father, mildly. He take’s Enjolras’ glass and gets up to fill it from the faucet. “Oh, and Enjolras?”

“Yes?”

“No more drinking until you’re twenty-one.”

\--

“Do not hang up on me,” says Enjolras when Bahorel picks up. He waits a moment.

“Okay,” says Bahorel, slowly. “Did you want something?”

“Grantaire disconnected his phone.”

Bahorel is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he says again. “That all?”

“I--” Enjolras puts his head in his hands. “You and Feuilly went after him last night, right?”

“Yes.” Bahorel sounds like he’s being deliberately obtuse and cautious. It makes Enjolras’ hackles rise.

“Was he okay?”

Bahorel sighs. “He was pretty broken up, actually.”

Enjolras wants to punch something--himself, preferably. “Does he--does he blame me?”

Bahorel laughs, ugly and biting. “Are you kidding?” he says.

“Right,” says Enjolras. “Can you tell him _I_ blame me?”

Bahorel’s voice goes gentle. “Would that really help, you think?” he says. “R thinks the world of you. He’ll just feel like he’s ruined you somehow.”

Enjolras’ hands clench. “Maybe he has,” he says, quietly.

“Enjolras,” Bahorel says. He sounds like he means business. “You’re my friend, too, but I’m telling you right the fuck now--”

“No, see,” Enjolras interrupts. “I can’t--I’m not--I don’t do things like this,” he says, finally. “I don’t date people, I certainly don’t go around skipping school--”

“But what about that time freshman year--”

“That was different, Joly needed me.”

“Right, yes, go on.”

“I just. Really need to talk to him.”

“Why?” says Bahorel.

“Because I hurt him,” Enjolras snaps. “And no matter what you all say I’m not above apologizing for my mistakes.”

There’s a pause.

“Wow, okay,” says Bahorel. “Obviously I need to be much more awake for this conversation, what exactly are we apologizing for?”

“For what I said last night,” says Enjolras, but he knows that’s not true. “For not--” he starts. “For lots of things.”

“Such as?”

“For not talking to him,” Enjolras manages finally. “For not--for getting drunk, actually. That was not...my best idea.”

“No,” says Bahorel. “I’d go back further, though.”

Enjolras frowns. “I know what you’re going to say,” he says. “And I won’t apologize for it. Not that, Bahorel. Never.”

“If you hadn’t made the stupid deal in the first place--” says his friend.

“If I haven’t made the bet I would not have met him,” Enjolras replies, loudly. “I mean sure, I’d probably have eventually realized that he was attending the Mock Trial meetings but I wouldn’t have known that he takes figure drawing classes on Mondays or that he orders the most ridiculous type of ice cream ever.”

His mouth opens to go on, furiously, about the exact shade of Grantaire’s eyes when he’s angry, or sad, or laughing and the way his hands feel pressed up close to Enjolras’ chest; but he stops. He is blushing, suddenly, and his heart is pounding.

“Enjolras?” says Bahorel. He sounds concerned.

“Erm,” says Enjolras. The floaty feeling is back and this time there isn’t the shroud of post-coital bliss to ruin the effects. “I think I need to go lie down,” he says.

“You should a little bit faint,” says Bahorel. “Are you sure you’re okay.

“Absolutely,” says Enjolras, as if his heart isn’t beating it’s way out of his chest. “I just really need to talk to Grantaire. And he’s disconnected his phone.”

“Yeah, actually he threw his phone off of his bike last night when Feuilly and I tried to get a hold of him,” says Bahorel.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” There’s some static on Bahorel’s end. “It’s not my place to tell you how R feels,” he says, quietly. “But I’d try Eponine.”

Enjolras swallows. “I had been avoiding that, actually.”

Bahorel laughs. “Yeah, she’s pretty terrifying.”

“You could say.”

“She knows him better than I do, though. And she likes you--never mind what she says.”

“She--really?”

“Really,” says Bahorel. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go back to sleeping off the hangover from hell.”

Enjolras groans. “Don’t remind me,” he says.

“Haha,” says Bahorel. “I forgot--that was your first time, wasn’t it.”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, no, come on. You kicked ass at pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. It was uncanny. We fucking blindfolded you.”

Enjolras remembers that faintly, but mostly he remembers winning the last time, and wanting to show Grantaire.

“But anyway, call Eponine, and let me know how it goes with Grantaire, okay?”

“Okay,” says Enjolras. He hangs up the phone, and stares back at it. It’s only Saturday. He has the entire day to work up the courage to call Eponine.

\--

He ends up falling asleep, but when he wakes up, it’s to the doorbell ringing. He groans, sets about unfolding himself from the uncomfortable pretzel he’d ended up in, and makes his hand release his phone.

“Coming,” he calls, hoarsely, down the stairs.

He gets about two steps down them before it occurs to him that there’s really only one person who might be ringing his doorbell in the middle of a Saturday, and so he ends up running the rest of the way there, pulling the door open to reveal Cosette, grinning at him shyly and saying, “I have no idea why I forgot my key, sorry about that.”

Enjolras can feel his face fall.

Cosette must see it, too, because her smile slips. “Oh, honey,” she says. “Did you think I was Grantaire?”

 “Why would he think you were Grantaire?” says Eponine, and Enjolras turns his head to look at her. “He pretty much broke R’s heart; he wouldn’t come here.”

Enjolras pulls the door open wider. “I thought you were on a date,” he says.

“I was,” says Cosette. “Eponine crashed it.”

“I did no such thing,” says Eponine, walking into the house with Cosette following. “I was loitering outside your house debating throwing a rock at your window when she caught me.”

“You were doing what?” says Enjolras.

“It’s not important,” says Eponine. “What is important is that one of you tells me what you did to Grantaire last night.”

Enjolras sighs. “You should probably sit down,” he says. “It’s a long story.”

“He’s been telling it all day,” Cosette puts in. She takes Enjolras’ chair at the kitchen table without a second thought, and Eponine settles into the one next her. This leaves Enjolras across from them, and they stare at him with identical looks of curiosity. “First to Papa--how did that go?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Fine,” he says. “Dad’s useful as always.”

Eponine snorts. “Your father is many things,” she says. “But useful is not one of them.”

Enjolras ignores her. “Bahorel said he talked to him, and he seemed upset.”

“Upset,” Eponine repeats. “Upset would not be the half of it. Devastated, more like.”

Enjolras debates putting his head in his hands. Certainly, looking at Eponine right now is not high on his list of things to do. “He hates me,” he says, sighing. “I hate me.”

“Well, no,” says Eponine, finally. “That’s the problem, actually.”

Enjolras frowns at her. “I said horrible things to him,” he says. “Why wouldn’t he hate me?”

Eponine stares at him, and then shakes her head at him. “You really have no idea,” she says. “I’m not sure who to go punch--you for being this clueless, or Grantaire for fucking--” she breaks off. “Liking you,” she finishes, lamely.

“That’s not what you were going to say,” says Enjolras.

Eponine glares at him. “I’m not betraying my friends trust,” she says. “Not even for you.”

“You don’t even like me,” Enjolras replies.

“No,” says Eponine. “But for someone I don’t like, I spend an awful lot of time cleaning up your messes.”

Enjolras stares at her for a moment, and then turns to look at Cosette. His sister nods at him. He looks back at Eponine. “I’m glad Combeferre is dating you,” he says finally.

“Fuck,” says Eponine. “Fuck, dammit, Cosette!”

Cosette grins. “Told you,” she says, and holds out her hand.

Enjolras watches Eponine put a twenty dollar bill into her hand blankly. “Did you bet on something?” he says.

Cosette pulls out her phone and starts texting. “Yeah,” she says. “When you’d finally own up and actually say that Combeferre and Eponine were dating out loud.” She finishes her text, and within moments all their phones are ringing.

“’Ponine,” Courfeyrac says when Eponine puts him on speaker. He’s the first to get through. “You betrayed me!” He sounds like he’s in a car, possibly.

Eponine rolls her eyes. “It’s not like you bet all that much anyway,” she says, frostily, hanging up on Courfeyrac before he can protest.

“Don’t be too angry,” says Combeferre, when Enjolras puts him on speaker. “I made your twenty back.”

Enjolras isn’t sure why he’s all that surprised that Combeferre was in on it. “Who made the most, anyway?” he says.

Cosette grins. “Jehan,” she says.

“Jehan,” Enjolras repeats.

“Yep,” says Cosette. “He should be coming over sometime to collect his winnings.”

Enjolras keeps staring at her. “What did he even bet?”

“More money than we’re speaking of,” says Eponine, tightly, and gets up to get the door before it rings.

She pulls it open to reveal Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Jehan.

Enjolras just blinks. “Um,” he says. “You all got here very fast.”

“Bahorel called me,” says Courfeyrac. He’s the first to come into the house. “ _They_ never left,” he adds “I kicked out most of the friends of friends, but this lot would not leave.”

“You have very comfortable pillows,” says Bossuet.

Courfeyrac makes a face. “I have no idea how you managed to smother yourself with one of them,” he says. “But it is an experience we are never repeating..”

“It was good practice for Joly, though,” says Bahorel, grinning. He pulls out his wallet and starts gathering bills and hands them to Jehan.

“Speak for yourself,” says Joly, twitching. “I never want to do that again.”

Jehan collects his money with an easy smile, and they all file into Enjolras’ living room, settling onto the couch and staring blankly at the TV.

“I think movie night,” says Cosette, finally, after a moment. “Don’t you?”

Enjolras looks at his friends, gathered around him, and sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Are we missing Feuilly?”

They all look at each other guiltily.

“Oh,” says Enjolras. “Right, okay.”

Courfeyrac is the first to break the silence. “What’re we watching?” he says.

Cosette comes in bearing snacks. “Tolkien,” she says, sounding sure. “Because we need the three hours.”

They all turn to look at Enjolras, catching him in the middle of making himself a cocoon of blankets to nest in. He blinks; they all nod.

“Yeah,” says Courfeyrac. “We really do.”

Bahorel gets up to find the DVDs, but even he is laughing.

“Hey,” says Enjolras, but it lacks bite.

“It’s cool,” says Combeferre, dryly. He’s taken up residence of the armchair with Eponine, and she practically glowing. “We can’t all be lucky in love.”

Instead of earning him a laugh like it usually does, Enjolras sort of wilts. “I think I’m in love,” he says, dejectedly.

“Oh god,” says Courfeyrac. “You weren’t kidding,” he finishes, despite the way Eponine is suddenly miming death at him.

Enjolras just sighs. “He hates me,” he says.

Half of the room chokes on their various snacks, and the other half of them--Combeferre, Eponine, and Cosette respectively--sit quietly in silence.

“Right,” says Courfeyrac, voice cracking a little. “So you really weren’t kidding.”

Eponine reaches around for one of Combeferre’s shoes and pulls it off to throw at Courfeyrac.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” says Combeferre when Courfeyrac simply takes custody of the shoe and continues eating like nothing ever happened. Bahorel emerges victorious with the box set and the disc, which he puts into the dvd player with a grin.

“He’s not going to do anything to it,” Eponine points out. “And you’ll take your shoes off anyway.”

Combeferre doesn’t argue with that. “I already lost a good pair of shoe last night, is all,” he says.

Enjolras seriously considers hiding his in his blankets. “I hate you.”

“Hush,” says Combeferre. “You cost me good money, let me have my revenge.”

“It’s okay, Enjolras,” says Jehan. He comes to sit next to Enjolras’ cocoon and curls into him. “I am on your side.”

Bossuet reaches around Joly to smack him. “You’re only saying that because he just made you rich,” he says, accusing.

Joly snorts. “By that logic, I should be on Enjolras’ side as well,” he says.

“How much did you make,” Courfeyrac says with narrowed eyes. “Come, whisper it in my ear, Joly.”

Joly shakes his head, but gets up to do so anyway. Courfeyrac shoves him away before he can finish. “Unfair,” he says. “I knew Enjolras longer than you.” He points at Jehan and Joly, who trade smiles.

“If that were the determining factor, I shouldn’t have made any money,” says Combeferre.

“You said you lost some,” says Enjolras, accusing.

Combeferre just smiles back at him, mischievous.

“How many bets did you have going, anyway?”

No one says anything and Enjolras narrows his eyes.

“Okay,” he says. “We should start the movie, shouldn’t we?”

Cosette just smiles at him, and gets to her feet. “Okay.”

“Hey, hang on,” says Courfeyrac. “Didn’t Marius bet?”

Enjolras chokes on his own breath. “What?” he manages.

“Yes,” says Cosette. “You can all give him his money later.”

“Marius made _money_?” Enjolras gasps out, swallowing heavily. Joly reaches behind Jehan to pat him on the back.

Cosette continues to smile at him. “Yes,” she repeats. “You seem surprised.” She doesn’t say where Marius is, but from the sudden still in the air Enjolras can guess.

Enjolras waves a hand at her and ignores the sudden pit in his stomach. “Not at all.” He shoots Joly a quick grateful smile.

“Okay,” says his sister, but she’s grinning. She grabs the remote, dims the lights, and hits play.

“Wait hold on!” says Courfeyrac, before they can even get to the menu. Eponine looks over at Combeferre, who sighs, but lets her take his other shoe to throw at him. “Which one is it?”

“Does it matter?” says Cosette, mildly. Enjolras watches the blood drain out of Courfeyrac’s face with considerable amusement.

“Um, no?”

“Good.”

Cosette goes to hit play again, about the same time the front door opens to reveal Valjean and, shockingly, Javert.

The police inspector stares at the group in the living room blankly, while Valjean rolls his eyes. “They’re just children,” he says. “They won’t bite.”

Javert continues to stare at them.

“What was it you needed?”

“Pliers,” Javert says, slowly. “Please.”

Valjean heads for the drawer in the kitchen. “Movie night?”

Cosette grins. “We’re having Cuddle Enjolras Night, Papa,” she says.

“Wait, what?” says Enjolras, at the same time Valjean points out, “I’m not seeing a whole lot of cuddling.”

“The man has a point,” says Jehan. _Jehan_. Enjolras is feeling rather betrayed.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Joly tries to say, but even he ends up smothered in the mad dash to pile on top of Enjolras.

“What are you talking abou--hey!” Enjolras shrieks, voice sounding unbearably high to his own ear. “Get off me!”

His friends don’t budge an inch. “No dice,” says Courfeyrac, from somewhere around his middle. “You’re stuck with us.”

“Yep,” agrees Jehan, from somewhere near his right ear.

“I think I’m going to go, now,” says Javert’s voice, and the door closes. Valjean’s laughter follows him out of the house.

Someone ruffles Enjolras’ hair.

“You’re like a dog,” says Courfeyrac, amused.

Enjolras opens his mouth to retort, and then very vividly remembers the last time someone told him he was like a dog. His body can’t quite figure out if it should be horrified or aroused, but his brain has no such qualms. It dredges up the memory of Grantaire’s face, stuck somewhere between stunned and hurt, and he curls in on himself.

“Oh, Enjolras,” says Jehan. “I’m sorry.”

“Holy shit, he actually told you about that,” says Bahorel.

Enjolras blinks. “What?” he tries to say. He clears his throat. “What?”

“Um,” says Bahorel, but someone must hit him because he doesn’t finish. “Never mind.”

“What Bahorel means to say,” says Eponine. She sounds very far away, and when Enjolras cranes his head he realizes she’s still in the arm chair. “Is that we’re all very sorry you’re hurting, but we’d like to actually watch the movie.”

“No, I’m good,” says Courfeyrac, nuzzling at Enjolras’ chest. “You’re very comfy.” Enjolras smiles down at him, bemused, before looking back at Eponine.

“Why are you all the way over there?”

Eponine meets his eyes. “I like you,” she says, finally. “But the number of times you have made Grantaire cry on my couch negates that.”

Combeferre fights his way free of the pile and goes to look at her.

Enjolras just closes his eyes. “He hates me,” he groans, again.

There’s nothing but silence from the group covering him.

“Is he--” says Joly, finally. “Is he serious?”

“Sadly, yes,” says Courfeyrac.

“We figure that he really means that he hates himself,” puts in Cosette.

“Enjolras, open your eyes and look at me,” says Joly. Enjolras complies, only to be assaulted by a very tiny flashlight.

“Joly!” he cries, blinking furiously. “Where were you hiding that?”

“You might be suffering from brain damage,” says Joly, seriously. “Stop moving.”

The pile disassembles, Bossuet grabbing Joly and dragging him bodily away to sit on the couch. “It’s not brain damage, it’s just Enjolras’ unique brand of obliviousness,” he says.

“Where were you hiding, that though,” mutters Courfeyrac.

“Can we watch the movie, now?” says Cosette.

Enjolras gets to his feet. He’s still seeing spots. “Actually, I think I’m just going to go take a nap--”

His phone beeps. He freezes.

The entire room stares at him. “You going to get that?” Combeferre says, finally.

Enjolras goes to pick up the phone. It claims to be a text from Feuilly, but it most definitely isn’t. _Hey,_ it says. _Don’t beat yourself up about last night, okay?_

Enjolras stares down at it, blankly, while his friends whisper amongst themselves.

“Who’s it from?” says Courfeyrac.

“Who do you think?” hisses Eponine.

“What’s it say?” says Bahorel.

“None of your business,” says Jehan.

The phone beeps one more time, and Enjolras opens the text, heart fluttering. _It wasn’t your fault_. If that’s meant to be comforting, it isn’t. Enjolras wants to sit down, settles for standing, and swallows. “He, ah,” he says. “He said it wasn’t my fault.”

Eponine snorts. “That idiot,” she starts to say before Combeferre puts a hand on her shoulder. “What? We’re not going to let him get away with none of the blame, are we?”

“She’s right,” Enjolras says before Combeferre can speak. “I should have tried harder to--um.” He stops, uncertain.

“You wanted to actually date him,” says Jehan, kindly.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras.

The entire room scoffs. “Please,” says Cosette. “Were you ever _not_ dating?”

Enjolras looks around at his friends. “What?”

“Come on, Enjolras,” says Courfeyrac, coming forward to nudge him on the arm. “You were dating as soon as he took you to do paint ball.”

Enjolras blinks.

“And ice cream?” puts in Eponine, grinning. “I don’t have to tell you how cliché that is.”

“He won’t stop drawing you,” puts in Bahorel. “I think his parents put one of you on the wall.”

Enjolras flushes. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “I saw that.”

“You saw that,” repeats Bahorel. He turns to look at everyone else. “He saw that. He-- You’ve been in his house.”

“I had to take a shower?” Enjolras tries to say.

“You--You showered in his house,” says Bahorel. “Dating. Completely dating.”

“So, you have one of the most interesting how-did-you-meet stories ever,” says Cosette, rejoining the conversation and walking over to him. She takes the phone from him, sets it down on the table, and leads him back to the couch, where she pushes him down onto it. “Big deal. Lots of people have those.”

“Pretty sure lots of people don’t have stories that feature this much bribery,” Courfeyrac mutters, sinking into the spot next to Enjolras. Combeferre hits him. “But,” he continues, sputtering a little. “The point still stands. You were never not dating. Just, neither of you noticed.”

“I noticed,” says Eponine.

“Yeah, me too,” says Bossuet. “You bought him a sketchbook.”

Enjolras throws him a betrayed look. “I did not,” he says.

“I have the receipt,” says Bossuet. “I figured I’d save it for the scrapbook the two of you will no doubt have for your wedding.”

Enjolras is all of a sudden glad that he’s sitting on the couch. “Wedding,” he repeats.

“You’re totally getting married,” puts in Eponine. She puts her feet up on the arm of the chair, and Combeferre lifts her legs to sit down in the empty space that leaves. “Because you’re totally going to go find Grantaire, and strap him to a chair if you have, and tell him that you love him and you can’t live without him.”

“There are so many things wrong with that sentence,” says Enjolras.

“But notice you haven’t tried denying any of it,” points out Eponine. “Now come on. We can either spend the next three hours talking about your wedding.”

Bahorel, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac each raise their hands in favor.

“Or we can watch a movie,” Eponine finishes.

“Or,” says Combeferre. “We could do a practice round or two. We only have a few more weeks.”

There is collective groaning, before Cosette shh’s them. “That’s a good idea,” she says. “You could use the practice.”

“Ugh, fine,” says Courfeyrac. “Let me grab my laptop.”

The rest of them get to their feet to help Combeferre move the furniture around so that it vaguely resembles a court room.

Enjolras watches them all with an amused smile, and catches Eponine’s arm when she goes to stand. “Thanks,” he says.

She stares at him for a moment. “No problem,” she says, finally. “Just make sure you don’t do it again.”

Enjolras has no doubt as to what she means, and nods. “I won’t promise not to,” he says, slowly. “But I will promise to always try to make things better when we do.”

Eponine nods at him. “Good,” she says, and goes to rejoin the others.

Enjolras watches her go with a smile. “Your girlfriend is a menace,” he says to Combeferre.

“That she is,” his friend agrees. “Pay up.”

The rest of their friends sputter and pull out money accordingly, and Enjolras just sighs. “Is there anything you guys _didn’t_ bet about?”

There’s a moment of silence.

“So about my cross,” Courfeyrac says, loudly. “Can we practice that first?”

Enjolras can feel his lips twitching as he watches, amused. He really has the best friends.

Grantaire’s text message is a knot, ugly and festering, that will sit in his stomach for the rest of the weekend. But he’ll see him on Monday, and he’ll talk to him.

For now, he turns his attention to the task at hand; making sure they’re as ready as they can be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more to go! Feel free to say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).


	9. Not even a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter, guys! We're almost done!
> 
> Betaed by [bardofrats](http://bardofrats.tumblr.com/) who is AWESOME. All other mistakes are my own.

**9\. Not even a little bit.**

\--

Enjolras decides to wake up incredibly early so that he can stake out Grantaire’s parking space before school starts. Or rather, Enjolras doesn’t get in bed till well past two in the morning, and spends the next several hours staring blankly at the ceiling of his room. He tries reading a book, but ends up finishing it. He tries sketching in the sketchbook he most definitely did not buy for Grantaire, but he ends up writing out his arguments for mock trial in an attempt to make them better. Grantaire, he thinks, would probably be able to make them better; Grantaire, he thinks, would probably want a clean sketchbook. But the sketchbook is not for Grantaire, so he does not rip out the pages and instead shoves it under his bed.

A few hours later, when he grows tired of closing his eyes for the sake of closing his eyes, he gets up to find Cosette.

His sister is still sleeping. All he can make out is a vague lump where she’s curled under the blankets.

“Cosette,” he says.

She doesn’t move.

“Cosette,” he says again, louder. “Wake up.”

“Enjolras?” says Cosette, sounding like she’s still asleep. “What do you want?”

“Wake up, we have to go to school.”

Cosette sits up straight, eyes wild, and starts wrestling her way free of the blankets. “Are we late?” she says, frantically. “Did my alarm not go off? I’m really sorry!” She grabs her phone and a hairband, starts hastily pulling her hair into a bun, and then stops. “Enjolras?”

“Yes?”

“It is six in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“The sun is not up.”

Enjolras walks to her bedroom window and pulls open the blinds to peer out. “No,” he agrees.

Cosette flops back into bed. “I hate you,” she says, groaning. “Come back when the sun is up.”

He frowns at her. “That’s not for an hour,” he says. “We’ll miss him.”

Cosette doesn’t roll over. “Shh,” she says. “Sleeping.”

“We’ll _miss_ him,” Enjolras repeats. Cosette lets out a fake snore.

Enjolras turns her light on, and she flops over and burrows under her blankets. “Enjolras I am going to kill you the _sun isn’t up yet_.”

He stares at her for a good long moment.

“Enjolras!”

“Fine, yes, I’ll be back when the sun rises.” He shuts the door.

Ten minutes later, Cosette comes crawling into his room fully dressed blinking blearily and glaring. “You left my light on,” she says, as she settles into his bed and captures his pillows.

“What are you doing?” asks Enjolras, bemused.

Cosette extracts a hand from the covers and waves it in the air. “This way you can just throw something at me when it’s time to go.” She yawns. “I even put on clothes.”

He stares at her. “Okay.”

“Cool.” She pulls the covers over her head, and lets out a long sigh. “Remember,” she says sleepily. “When the sun is up.”

“I know,” says Enjolras, but his lips are twitching.

\--

Sometime around seven, Enjolras settles himself on the edge of his bed and stares down at his sister.

“Cosette.”

Nothing.

He sighs, and shoves her. “Cosette.”

She makes an endearing snuffling noise and opens her eyes. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” says Enjolras. “The sun is up.”

Cosette follows his line of sight to the window. “Yes,” she says. “It is.”

“Good, we can go now,” says Enjolras, getting to his feet and hurrying to gather his school supplies. “I don’t want to miss him.”

“You--” says Cosette. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Enjolras frowns at her, but doesn’t pause in his packing. “Come on, hurry, you’re not getting ready,” he says.

Cosette stares at him for a long moment. “How long as the sun been up?”

“I don’t know--”

“How long has the sun been up?”

He glares at her, and she glares back. It’s almost amusing, since she’s fully dressed in a colorful dress with a suede jacket, but her hair is everywhere and she’s not wearing any make up. Not that he’s any better, probably, because he didn’t sleep last night. Not that he’s going to tell Cosette that.

“Maybe ten, twenty minutes?” he says, finally.

She flops back against the covers. “Likelihood of Grantaire showing up at school twenty minutes after the sun rose is _slim_ , Enjolras,” she says, dully, like it’s common knowledge.

“Is that common knowledge?” Enjolras asks, to be clear.

“Oh my god, I hate my life,” says Cosette, rolling over and smothering herself with his pillow. “You are the most emotionally constipated person I have ever met.”

Enjolras frowns at her. “You didn’t answer my que--” he breaks off to sneeze, “--question.”

Cosette lifts her head to look at him. “Did you just sneeze?” she asks, finally.

Enjolras doesn’t say anything and gets up to go find her some shoes. He comes back with her boots, frowning a little. “Do these even match?” he asks, voice coming out a little wobbly. He sneezes again, twice in quick succession.

“Are you--are you okay?” says Cosette.

“Fine,” says Enjolras, clearing his throat. “Can we--”

“Okay, okay,” says Cosette, getting to her feet and pulling on the boots. “You’re still being ridiculous,” she adds, but she follows him downstairs with her backpack a few minutes later. She sits him down to make coffee, however, and when he gets in the car, she passes him Grantaire’s sketchbook without a word.

“What are you giving me this for?” he says.

“Drive,” she says, and he puts it into his backpack silently.

\--

He expects her to leave him when he pulls into the nearly empty parking lot and settles down to wait in front of Grantaire’s parking space, but she just hand him her tea and sits down next to him.

“What are you doing?” he says, because he thought she was angry at him for waking her before the sun rose.

“Oh, I am,” she says. “I’m just here to make sure you’re not going to say something and get punched in the face.”

Enjolras sometimes wonders if she’s a mind reader.

“Yeah, no, you’re doing that thing where you say everything you’re thinking,” says Cosette. “You always do it when you’re tired--pretty sure this is why you vetoed truth or dare at all of your parties,” she adds. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac would take advantage of it horribly.”

Enjolras stares at her. “Okay?”

“You don’t look so good, though,” Cosette continues. She purses her lips, and reaches out to put a hand on his forehead, and Enjolras moves away. He feels vaguely dizzy, but he ignores it.

“Grantaire wouldn’t punch me in the face,” he says. He takes a sip from his steaming cup.

“That’s what I said,” says Cosette. She still looks concerned, but less so. “But when I texted Eponine, she told me I should be present to make sure he didn’t.”

 “Eponine thinks Grantaire will punch me in the face?” Enjolras repeats, turning to more fully address his sister.

“Eponine is a smart girl,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras turns his head around so fast it cracks. He catches the tail end of Grantaire’s sympathetic wince, before it turns into something of a scowl. The other is standing next to his car, arms crossed protectively over his chest, and staring up at Enjolras.

“Are you going to punch him in the face?” says Cosette, pointing at Grantaire.

He raises an eyebrow. “Hadn’t planned on it, no.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she continues, but she narrows her eyes and backs away slowly for good measure.

“Your sister is terrifying,” Grantaire says, gleefully.

Enjolras nods. “Yes,” he agrees. “What did you mean it wasn’t my fault?”

“So I really do have a parking space, I guess,” says Grantaire, instead. “Huh.” He taps his car as he thinks, before leaping up onto one of the concrete dividers. “I should work on that.”

“No,” says Enjolras, because Grantaire should not. “I’d have no way to find you.”

Grantaire snorts. “You have my number,” he says, reasonably. “And I don’t have multiple lockers.”

“Did you get a new phone?” says Enjolras.

“Maybe,” says Grantaire. “Not telling.”

“The number’d be the same, anyway,” Enjolras mutters. His eyes fall down to his arm, the strip of skin that once wore Grantaire’s number and he sighs. “No, but--“”

“Did you want something?” interrupts Grantaire. He stares down at Enjolras, arms swinging a little at his sides, before frowning.

“I, um,” says Enjolras. “It was my fault.”

Grantaire sighs. “That, again?” He jumps down next to Enjolras and starts walking.

Enjolras goes scrambling after him, coffee sloshing about his cup in a worrying way. He ditches the coffee in a passing trash can. “Again--?”

“Feuilly’s been blaming you all last night,” says Grantaire. “I was ready to throw him out of my house simply because he was _boring me_.”

They reach the doors to the school, and Enjolras blinks. “Okay--?”

“Anyway, I think we established that I’m not budging so you can tell him that it’s pointless to keep repeating it--”

“You think I’m here because of Feuilly,” says Enjolras. His heart is in his stomach, and he would like nothing more than to take Grantaire’s head in his hand and shout into his mouth until he _gets_ _it_.

“Well, obviously,” says Grantaire, pulling open the door and turning to look at him. “That all?”

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth a few times. “You’re not angry about Friday?”

“Nope,” says Grantaire. It’s unsaid that he doesn’t think he has any reason to be, and Enjolras gives into the urge to snarl under his breath.

“You are the most frustrating person I have ever met,” he tells Grantaire, following him off towards his locker.

“What are you doing?” says Grantaire. “Your locker’s in the other direction.”

“I mean it,” Enjolras continues. “Most frustrating.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I have been called that before, yes,” he agrees.

“You really aren’t angry at me about Friday?” Enjolras stops, to glare at him, eyes narrowed, and tap his foot.

Grantaire keeps walking. “Nope,” he says. “You look ridiculous!” He singsongs the last bit, and Enjolras starts after him, snarling again.

“I don’t know what I even see in you!”

“I don’t either!” says Grantaire, twisting around to look at him. He starts walking backwards. “We’re finally on the same page!”

Enjolras scowls. “Don’t try to put this all on me,” he snaps.

Grantaire throws up his arms. “I’m not!” he says. “You’re the one trying to put this on you!”

Enjolras’ mouth snaps shut. “That’s--true,” he says. “But--why do you always have to do this?”

Grantaire stares back at him, eyes blazing. “Do what?” he asks.

“Argue with me!”

Grantaire laughs. He throws his head back, and Enjolras gets a firsthand look at the string of bruises he knows he left on Grantaire’s neck Friday night, and laughs, dry and bitter. They’re the center of attention in the hallway, and Enjolras doesn’t care.

“I thought you wanted me to argue with you,” Grantaire snaps. “Didn’t you give me ‘permission’?” He raises his hands in the air on ‘permission’ to make air-quotes, and Enjolras is flushing before he can stop himself; he can’t tell if it’s because he want to kill Grantaire, or if it’s because he still wants to kiss him.

“Can we not--” he tries to protest.

“What?” says Grantaire, loudly, eyes darting all over the crowd to land on Enjolras’ face. “Embarrassed?” He lets his arms fall to his sides, fingers outstretched, and smiles. It’s an ugly smile, and Enjolras knows deep down that it is entirely his fault, but seeing that kind of raw cruelty on Grantaire’s face makes something deep in his chest wilt. _Look at me_ , Grantaire’s smile says, _watch me be cruel._ “You?” Grantaire is saying. “Really? The mighty _Apollo_?”

That does it. That use of that infernal nickname to wound is what does it. One second Enjolras is quietly seething and the next he has a hold of Grantaire and is shoving him into the nearest doorway. It’s empty, luckily, and the door shuts behind them with a harsh thud.

“Hit a nerve there, did I?” says Grantaire, voice a cord of steel in the dark classroom.

“Stop talking,” says Enjolras.

“Or what?” says Grantaire. Enjolras doesn’t flick on the light, and Grantaire makes no move to do so either. He eyes where Enjolras’ hands are clenched around his arms. “What are you going to do, Enjolras?”

Enjolras lets his breath at slowly, and tries to uncurl his hands.

Grantaire gets fed up with his silence, and his face goes mean again. “Kiss me?” he says, cruelly. Enjolras flinches, and something in Grantaire’s face goes tight, but he owns the words, head going back slightly and posture growing all the more cocky.

“No,” Enjolras says, quietly, and all the fight goes out of Grantaire’s body. He wouldn’t kiss him like this, now. That would ruin everything.

“No,” he agrees, miserably, and leaves. He just-- _leaves_. Enjolras is left, standing, arms outstretched with his mouth open, alone in the dark classroom.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fucking. _Fuck_.” He punches a nearby desk, which hurts, and continues swearing, “Fucking ow!” all the way out of the classroom, where Courfeyrac is waiting for him.

Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything, just unfolds himself from the wall and starts walking with Enjolras towards his locker.

“Huh,” Enjolras says, staring at him. “I would have thought Combeferre--”

“Combeferre is many things,” says Courfeyrac, over him, “but he is a stranger to the break-up.”

Enjolras blinks. “We’re not broken up,” he says, quickly.

Courfeyrac stares at him. “Shall I put it in normal couple words?” he repeats. “We’re over?”

Enjolras scowls. “We weren’t dating to begin with,” he says, nastily. “Therefore we can’t be broken up.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “See, this is why we should have watched a movie Saturday.”

Enjolras frowns at him.

“Movies mean you let your guard down,” Courfeyrac continues. He catches someone’s eye over Enjolras’ shoulder and waves. “Right?”

“Right,” says Jehan, appearing on Enjolras’ other side. He’s wearing floral jeans, combat boots, a simple, off-white v-neck, and--

“Is that Grantaire’s jacket?” asks Enjolras.

“Yeah,” says Jehan. “He sort of thrust it at me earlier? Said I’d know why later?”

\--Grantaire’s leather jacket. He smiles, sweetly, at both Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “What am I agreeing to?” he asks.

“Things,” says Courfeyrac. “Relationship things. Grantaire-Enjolras relationship things,” adds Courfeyrac, with considerably less composure than he had at the start of the conversation.

Enjolras stares between the two of them. “Did something change?” he says, slowly.

“No,” says Courfeyrac, quickly. “Nothing changed at all, right?”

Jehan keeps smiling, and Courfeyrac focuses all of his attention on Enjolras instead.

“But let’s be serious,” he says. “The two of you broke up, and now you’re trying to figure out a way to properly convey to Grantaire both how sorry you are and how very much you’d like it if he’d accost you in my parents’ bedroom again.”

Enjolras opens his mouth. “Actually, yes,” he says. “That was surprisingly helpful, thank you.” He pats Courfeyrac on the shoulder and heads for his locker.

“Hold on, what?” says Courfeyrac. “No, come on, at least part of that sentence was wrong--Enjolras!”

Enjolras keeps walking.

\--

He sneezes a little halfway through English, and Bahorel stares at him. “What?” he whispers, blinking a little blearily down at the assigned reading.

Bahorel just shakes his head and pulls out a packet of tissues.

Enjolras takes them, gratefully, and wipes at his nose. His head still feels a bit fuzzy, but he attributes that to the tiny writing before him. “Thanks,” he mutters at Bahorel, and wipes his nose.

“No problem,” says Bahorel.

He sounds cautious, but Enjolras really should be concentrating on the work before him, so he puts it to the back of his mind and gets to work.

\--

The headache hits him sometime during History. Lamarque is at the board, gesticulating greatly as he explains the layers of The Enlightenment, and Enjolras’ head feels like it is slowly leaking out of his ears.

Combeferre is sitting next to him, and keeps shooting him concerned glances. “Are you ok--” he tries to say, but Enjolras sneezes and interrupts him. “Um.” He pulls out a packet of tissues and gives to Enjolras. “Bahorel gave me these, and then ran away, but, uh, here?”

Enjolras takes them gratefully. “Thanks.”

He blows his nose. Combeferre stares at him, blankly. “You look a little--” he starts to say, but seems to think better of it and goes back to taking notes.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras tells him, swiping at his nose with a free corner of his tissue.

“Right,” says Combeferre. Several minutes later, he shakes his head. “Yeah, no, you’re not fine.”

Enjolras glares at him. “Shut up and take notes,” he snaps back, and goes back to massaging at his temples with his fingers. “It’s just a headache. I don’t need anything.”

\--

“I need your help,” Enjolras tells Courfeyrac, five minutes later, leaning in close to him to watch as Fauchelevent nearly brings the chalk in his hand to his mouth like a cigarette. Two rows down, Joly nearly has a heart attack.

At his side, Courfeyrac does the same. “Holy shit,” he says. “When did you get here?”

“Lamarque sent me to the nurse,” says Enjolras. “Something about a fever, it’s not important. What is important is that I need you to help me talk to Grantaire.”

“Not important--when did-- _how_ did you get here?” repeats Courfeyrac. “Did you sneak in when we were on break? Because we just had break--”

“You’re missing the point,” says Enjolras. “You need to help me.”

“I--yes,” says Courfeyrac, sticking a hand on his forehead. “Yes I do.” He raises his hand and Fauchelevent looks at them.

“Yes?” he says, in Latin.

“I need to take Enjolras to the nurse,” says Courfeyrac, in surprisingly accurate Latin. “Fevers, you know how they are.”

“Yes,” agrees Fauchelevent, and nods at the door. He frowns a little at Enjolras, but otherwise does not make any mention of how he is not in this class.

“How did you do that?” hisses Enjolras as Courfeyrac manhandles him out of the chair and towards the door. “I thought you were failing this class?”

“Shut up and walk,” hisses Courfeyrac back at him. “I might have been exaggerating.”

“Is Enjolras okay?” says Joly, when they pass him, looking concerned. His fingers are twitching, and Enjolras reaches out to take his hand. “You’re burning up.”

“He’ll be fine,” Courfeyrac says again, in Latin, smiling back at Fauchelevent and dragging Enjolras free of the classroom. “I do not know what you have against that class but I’m pretty sure that man hates me.”

Enjolras blinks at him. “I’m not in his class,” he says. “He knows that.” He lists a little, and Courfeyrac tightens his hold on his shoulders. “But that’s not important, we need to talk about Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac laughs, brokenly, and manhandles Enjolras down the hallway. “Can we save it for when you’re well?”

“I tried to talk to him earlier,” Enjolras continues, ignoring the way Courfeyrac lets out a little whimper when he does so. “But he said mean things and I said equally mean things and we didn’t even have a bed to kiss in.” That’s not quite what he wanted to say, actually. He frowns. “Wait, no, hold on.”

“Oh my god,” says Courfeyrac.

“I thought about what you said,” Enjolras tries to start again. “About apologizing to Grantaire and--” he breaks off, flushing. “Bedrooms,” he finishes hoarsely.

Courfeyrac’s fingers flex against his arms. “You definitely have a fever,” he says, as they walk. “I can’t believe this.”

“You need to help me figure out how to apologize.”

“Pretty sure all you have to do is say ‘I’m sorry,’” says Courfeyrac, pulling Enjolras around a corner.

“Why are we spinning?” says Enjolras. He pauses. “Oh.  Perhaps the nurse is a good idea.”

“I hate my life,” says Courfeyrac.

\--

“So you’ll be happy to hear you don’t have mono,” says Cosette, later, when Enjolras manages to peel his eyes open and actually somewhat see things. They’re in the nurse’s office--which he can tell by the too-bright light and the too-hard bed--and his sister is smirking at him. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Be happy they didn’t call Papa.”

Enjolras thinks about the last time he was sick and they called his father, and blanches.

Cosette nods at him. “I called him, actually, since at least one of your friends had the decency to tell me you’d collapsed in History.” She reaches out to fluff at his borrowed pillows. “It wasn’t Combeferre, surprisingly,” Cosette continues. “But to be fair, he was busy calming Courfeyrac. Origin of the mono theory--but again, it’s a lie.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, voice cracking. “Okay?” He sits up a little in bed. The movement draws his attention to the uncomfortable, paper-like casing, and he shifts uncomfortably on the bed.

“But anyway, Papa was very worried.”

Enjolras raises both eyebrows.

“He wanted to pull you out of school,” say Cosette. When Enjolras starts shaking his head frantically at her, she adds, “But I told him that was a bit much. You just have a horrible case of the common cold--that’s what you get for stealing people’s glasses at a party because your fake boyfriend kissed you.” While Enjolras is busy gaping at her, she adds, “Or kissed someone that was not you, rather.”

“I--um-- _ow_ ,” says Enjolras. His throat feels somewhat like sandpaper.

The nurse appears at Cosette’s side as if summoned by his vocalization. “How are you feeling?” she says, kindly, and hands him a cup. “Have some water.”

Enjolras takes it thankfully. The nurse holds out some pills, and Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m okay,” he says.

“Take them anyway,” says Cosette.

He sighs, but puts one on his tongue, obligingly, and takes a sip.

“You have to go be a lawyer in two weeks, anyway,” continues Cosette.

Enjolras nearly spits out his mouthful, but manages to swallow, painfully. “Two weeks?” he shouts.

Cosette sighs. “Don’t blame me; you’ve had it on your calendar for months. And you guys have been practicing for weeks now.”

That is true. He says as much.

“Also, why don’t you just take the defense’s side again?” says Cosette. “You shouldn’t have to play devil’s advocate to your own opinions.”

Enjolras hides his face in the blankets. “Combeferre won’t let me,” he mumbles. “He said I made someone cry last time.”

Cosette is quiet. “Right, okay,” she says finally. “Well, Grantaire as a judge helped, yes? You were able to make something of a case--”

“There’s no guarantee Grantaire will even be at the meetings, anyway,” says Enjolras angrily, still hiding.

“He would if you asked him,” says Cosette reasonably. She waits for a moment, before sighing. “Which...obviously you’re not going to, I don’t know why I even bother.”

Enjolras refuses to meet her eyes.

“Anyway,” says Cosette. “I’m here to tell you that mock trial starts soon, and to ascertain if you’re capable of speech, let alone legal thought.”

It takes Enjolras longer than he would like for that to sink in, and Cosette starts nodding before it does.

“So that’ll be a no, then,” she says, slowly. “I’ll just go tell Combeferre--”

Enjolras gets to his feet. “No,” he says, quickly. “I’m good. I can go.”

Cosette eyes him dubiously. “Combeferre is going to kick your ass,” she says.

Enjolras ignores her and starts walking.

\--

“No,” says Combeferre, not looking up from his notes. “Bossuet, if you could restrain Joly, please?”

Bossuet does as requested--taking hold on Joly, who upon seeing Enjolras had made a horrible noise high in the back of his throat and seemed torn between striding over to help him and fleeing the area to take a shower.

“I’m fine,” says Enjolras.

“You are not,” says Combeferre, but he finally looks up from his papers. He seems to digest the frown on Enjolras face-- the two spots of color that are most definitely left over from the fever that _went away_ , and he sighs. “Fine, someone get him a chair.”

“I can get my own chair,” Enjolras points out, as Courfeyrac drags a chair over and nudges him down into it.

“You look cold,” Courfeyrac says, tilting his head at him and blinking a few times.

“I’m not cold,” says Enjolras. He shivers, and Courfeyrac sighs.

“Does anyone have a jacket?”

“I’m not cold,” Enjolras repeats, even as Jehan comes over already shrugging off his borrowed leather jacket. “What are you doing?” Jehan smiles at him, and drapes the jacket up to his chin with more force than Enjolras had expected.

“There,” says his friend. “You look better already.”

“He’s still probably contagious!” says Joly, loudly, and Bossuet steps even further into his personal space so he can block Enjolras from his sight.

Enjolras sighs. He does, actually, feel warmer, but he’s not admitting that to anyone. Certainly not with Eponine and Cosette both staring at him, knowingly, and with Combeferre refusing to take his eyes off him. Also, Grantaire’s jacket smells like him. Enjolras most certainly does not take a few quick breaths when he realizes that; that would be creepy. And sad.

Jehan is smiling down at him when he looks back up, and Enjolras’ lips twitch despite himself. “Thank you,” he concedes.

“Don’t thank me,” says Jehan, evenly. “Thank Grantaire; he did say I would need it eventually.”

Courfeyrac chokes on air. “I told you it was mono--you!” He breaks off to point dramatically at Cosette. “You told me it wasn’t mono!”

Cosette sighs. “It wasn’t mono,” she says, putting her head in her hands. “It still isn’t mono. Grantaire probably meant that Jehan looked cold, is all.”

There’s a moment’s pause.

“Oh.” Courfeyrac turns to look at the poet in question, who does look a little bit like he’d rather not be wearing a short sleeved shirt.

“Yeah,” says Cosette, shaking her head.

“It’s not that bad, actually,” says Jehan, smiling. “Grantaire was probably just--oh, you don’t have to do that, Courfeyrac...and Bahorel....and everyone...”

Enjolras watches his friends gather around Jehan shrugging off their own outerwear, and smirks a little.

Eponine, seeing his face, comes over to sit next to him. “Hey,” she says.

Enjolras turns to look at her.

“I hear you had quite the argument this morning.”

He sighs. “You heard about that?”

“From the source himself,” agrees Eponine. “Want to tell me the real scoop?”

Enjolras frowns. “What did Grantaire say?”

Eponine raises her eyebrows. “Nothing good,” she tells him, voice careful. “How would you describe what happened?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to further push and ends up sneezing. Eponine blinks at him, and slides a bit away from him. “Excuse me,” says Enjolras, with great dignity.

Eponine frowns at him. “You sure you’re okay?” she says, slowly.

Enjolras shakes his head, but puts a hand on her arm before she can open her mouth. “Don’t,” he says. “They’re all counting on me.”

Eponine stares at him for a long moment, and then punches him in the arm. “You--” she says, face twisting into an odd mix of a smile and scowl. “You are so very impossible and I am starting to see why R is so over the moon for you.”

Enjolras blinks. “He is?” he manages. His face feels a bit funny, and his heart is most certainly going at a few miles a minutes, but that’s probably the fever. “I think I need to lie down.”

Eponine just shakes her head at him. “Nope,” she says. “Those are just feelings, you dork. You’re not--” she breaks off to slap a hand to his forehead, and pauses. “Actually, um, Combeferre!”

Enjolras tries to put a hand on her wrist, but it’s  a lot of effort, and what he really would like to do is sleep. So he does.

\--

The fever breaks sometime that night thankfully, because Valjean was starting to get on Enjolras’ nerves. His father means well, obviously, but there is only so much doting Enjolras can take before his eye starts twitching.

“Is his eye twitching?” says Valjean, hovering.

Cosette’s face comes into view, and she sighs. “Papa,” she says. “It’s ten.”

“Do you think I should call the doctor?”

“No,” says Cosette, putting a hand over her face. “His eye is twitching because it has been three hours and you spent all of them asking him repeatedly if he was okay.”

Valjean looks away from Cosette to peer anxiously at Enjolras, who nods furiously. His voice left sometime earlier that day, a fact which he entirely blames on Courfeyrac--because really, how was he supposed to rest his voice when the idiot kept making horrible, sweeping, and factually inaccurate points in _all of his parts_.

“Oh,” says Valjean. “Well, if you’re absolutely certain you’re okay--”

Enjolras manages to get his vocal chords to work well enough to rasp out, “Yes.”

“--Then I’ll just leave you to it. Shout if you need anything.” He leaves the room still anxiously darting looks over his shoulder.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow and waits a moment.

“You can’t shout, actually, so here,” says Valjean, giving Enjolras a bell, and vanishing out of the room again.

Enjolras looks between the bell and the doorway with amusement, before pulling out the pad Cosette had given him.

 _Money says he’s not sleeping_ , he writes.

Cosette snorts. “I know better than to take that bet,” she says.

 _It wasn’t a bet_ , Enjolras writes, frowning, but Cosette ignores him.

“I’m going to bed too.” She puts a hand on his forehead, again, and lets out a long breath. “You’re not so hot anymore, so I think you’ll be fine. Besides, you have two weeks to get your voice back. And to stop looking quite so much like death warmed over.”

Enjolras stares at her balefully.

“To be fair,” says his sister, stepping away from the bed in a move that looks completely purposeful. “That could just be the break up. Not the sickness.”

Enjolras _hates_ her, with passion, but she refills his water bottle so he can’t be too angry with her. Besides, he really is tired, and it really is late, and now that Valjean isn’t there to mother-hen him it isn’t hard to shut his eyes and drift off.

\--

 “Are you sure you’re okay?” says Combeferre, two weeks later, when Enjolras is busy straightening his tie in the mirror. “You were out for a good two days.”

Enjolras ignores him, and head over to his briefcase. “I’m fine,” he says. “Dad dragged me to the doctor last weekend. Clean bill of health.”

“Okay,” says Combeferre. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“Very much so,” says Enjolras. “Who am I driving?”

Combeferre has the decency to look sorry. “Just Courfeyrac,” he says. “We managed to get a bus for everyone else.”

Enjolras stares at him. “You want me to spend hours in a car trapped with Courfeyrac.”

“Hey!” says Courfeyrac, appearing in the bathroom doorway. “I resent that.”

“Look at it this way,” says Combeferre. “At least you’re the one driving.”

Enjolras considers that. “That’s true,” he says.

Courfeyrac doesn’t even bother with a response, just comes over and takes hold of Enjolras’ arm. “Shall we?” he says. He salutes Combeferre once before dragging Enjolras free of the room. Enjolras manages to grab his briefcase before they do, and goes stumbling after him. “Have you spoken to Grantaire?” says Courfeyrac when they round the corner.

Enjolras doesn’t stop trying to reclasp his briefcase. “You know I haven’t,” he says.

“Right,” says Courfeyrac. “And I was all set to let that slide, actually, since you were fighting off death--”

“It was a cold, Courfeyrac, not the plague--”

“--But last I checked the guy was still moping over you.”

They reach the entrance to the school, where they pass Montparnasse and Grantaire, mid-conversation and very decidedly not moping. Enjolras shoots Courfeyrac a look.

“Now look, you of all people know better than to base all of your conclusions on one piece of evidence,” says Courfeyrac, but he’s frowning at the back of Grantaire’s head. “He didn’t even look at you.”

Enjolras turns to look at him more definitely, and furrows his brow. “Why would Grantaire look at me?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “You’re wearing a three-piece suit,” he says. “Even I’m looking at you.”

To prove his point, he gives Enjolras a frankly insulting once-over, and laughs when Enjolras is left standing next to his car, shivering.

“I hate you,” he says.

“Love you too,” says Courfeyrac. He gives the door a tug. “You going to let me in?”

Enjolras sighs, and rummages around for his keys to unlock the door.

“But really,” says Courfeyrac, getting into the car. “You need to talk to him.”

Enjolras ignores him, gets into the car, and buckles in. He gets the sense that Courfeyrac is staring at him. When he gives in and looks over at him, his friend takes that as a cue to keep talking.

“Look, before the whole party fiasco, the two of you were practically attached at the hip.” Courfeyrac makes a face. “Actually also at the party. On my parents bed, for that matter.”

Enjolras scoffs, flushes, and puts the car in reverse. “I apologized for that,” he says.

“Yeah, but you’re still going to have to come up for a reason for why my parents’ anniversary gift is a new comforter,” says Courfeyrac.

Enjolras flushes harder and backs out of the parking space. It means he doesn’t have to keep finding reasons to not look at Courfeyrac. “Just tell them you thought of them when you saw it,” he says.

“Right,” says Courfeyrac. “Because a romantic honeymoon-esque bed set is exactly the type of thing that should inspire thoughts of your parents.”

“I’m not the one who bought a honeymoon-esque bed set,” says Enjolras. “I would have gotten a normal one.”

“That’s why you’re the one with so much trouble in love,” says Courfeyrac. “You never think outside the box. Big romantic gestures and the like.” He throws his hands up in the air to further make his point, and Enjolras turns to look at him.

It is not like he’s been avoiding Grantaire per se, but he has been healthy for a good few days now. And he has had plenty of opportunity to seek the other out and clear the air. And certainly it would have been useful to have Grantaire’s never-ending list of problems with every argument Enjolras ever made. But every time he saw him, he had other things to do. Like talking with Eponine, or finishing a paper, or eating lunch. Maybe a big romantic gesture is exactly what he needs.

“Also,” Courfeyrac is in the middle of saying when Enjolras turns to ask him. “What the hell am I sitting on, anyway?” He reaches back to the crease of the seat and pulls out the sketchbook Enjolras did not buy for Grantaire.

“I had wondered where that went,” Enjolras says, trying desperately to appear calm.

Courfeyrac looks like Christmas has come early. “Bossuet wasn’t joking when he said you bought him sketchbook,” he says.

“It’s for me, actually,” Enjolras tries to point out.

“This is fantastic! You should write something in it and give it to Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says over him, ignoring his protests.

Enjolras opens his mouth to further argue against him, but stops, blinking. “That is a fabulous idea,” he says, reaching over to take the sketchbook from Courfeyrac, and turning the car around.

“Combeferre is going to kill me,” says Courfeyrac, faintly, from the passenger’s seat.

Enjolras ignores him, and focuses on circling back through the parking lot. “Take the wheel,” he says, and ignores the way Courfeyrac is gaping at him to turn to the last pages of the sketchbook. “Give me a pen.”

“A--a _pe_ \--Enjolras I am _taking the wheel_!”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, and reaches over to rummage in the glove compartment, finding a sharpie and uncapping it. He scrawls the address for the court in a corner, and after a few moments with his heart thumping wildly in his chest, leaves a quick message for Grantaire as well.

“What do you think?” he says, turning to Courfeyrac.

“What do I think?” says Courfeyrac. “I think you’re going to kill us!”

Enjolras’ lips twitch. “So now you know how it feels,” he says, taking the wheel back.

“What?”

“That time you crashed Combeferre’s mom’s car?”

“Are we seriously talking about that? _Now?_ ”

Grantaire is still standing outside the school talking with Montparnasse when they find them, and Enjolras pulls up right next to him. He rolls down the window.

“Here,” he says, thrusting the sketchbook into Grantaire’s hands and very pointedly not watching to see if he notices the suit. “This is for you.”

Grantaire blinks at him. “Um,” he says. “Okay?” His eyes flick down once, to follow the line of Enjolras’ tie, and Enjolras has to take a moment to very pointedly tell himself that he is not blushing because of that.

“Good.” He rolls the window back up, and turns to Courfeyrac. “Floor it.”

Courfeyrac stares at him for a long moment. “I have the wheel,” he says, finally. “You floor it.”

Enjolras continues to not blush. “Right,” he says. “You can give me the wheel back.”

Courfeyrac releases his grip on the wheel and Enjolras presses down on the gas, leaving the parking lot, and the school, and Grantaire half-laughing, half-gaping, behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter more! Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/), and let me know what I should write for you guys in this universe from Grantaire's POV. ~~(It's almost over! I can't believe it!)~~


	10. Not even at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the END. I cannot tell you how much of an adventure this has been, and I love all of the lovely people who have come on it with me. You're all awesome. HUGS.
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [decourfeynated](http://decourfeynated.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. All other mistakes are my own.

**10\. Not even at all.**

\--

Enjolras has to hand it to Courfeyrac, because his friend somehow manages to go about five minutes of the journey without talking about the dark-haired elephant in the car.

“I spy with my little eye...something green.”

They have spent the last five minutes playing one of the saddest attempt at I Spy that Enjolras has ever been part of--and that’s even counting all the car rides with his father and Cosette. “For the last time, I can’t move my head, I am driving.”

Courfeyrac stares back at him, blinking. “So?”

“So, unless you’d like for us to die before we even reach the courtroom--”

“More importantly before you apologize to Grantaire,” interrupts Courfeyrac. “What’d you write in the sketchbook anyway?”

Enjolras flushes. “The address.”

“Ah,” says Courfeyrac. “Cosette and Eponine both have that.”

“And, um, something else.”

Courfeyrac grins at him. “What kind of something else?”

Enjolras shifts his hands on the wheel and doesn’t turn his head to look at Courfeyrac. “Can we talk about something else?” he asks, desperately. “Grass.”

“What?”

“Also the road signs,” Enjolras continues. “Grantaire’s shirt the day we met-- _I mean,_ um, the car we’re about to pass?”

“Are you okay?”

“I spy!” Enjolras cries, cheeks burning. “Can we keep playing I Spy?”

Courfeyrac shoots him an accusing stare. “You’re still sick,” he says.

“No,” says Enjolras, quickly. “I’m fine.” He has the sudden urge to sneeze, but he holds it in.

“Is there any grass around us?” Courfeyrac says, finally.

Enjolras checks. “Not really, no, but we could have--”

“Is it the day you met Grant--”

“So, was it the signs?!” Enjolras’ hands are starting to cramp from how tight he’s clutching the wheel, which is working absolute wonders on his control. They swerve, which is worrying, and quickly correct.

Courfeyrac sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “No,” he says. “It’s your tie.”

Enjolras looks down, quickly. “Huh.” He checks his rearview mirror to see if the car behind him noticed their almost lane change. “I thought I picked the red one.”

“I like it,” says Courfeyrac. “It suits you. Your turn.”

“What?”

“I spy?” Courfeyrac pulls out his phone and gives a quick once-over. “Unless you want to keep talking about Grantaire--?”

“I spy with my little eye something, er--” Enjolras breaks off, trying to find something to stare at. His eyes settle on the car in front of them. “Moving. And, um, white.”

There is a pause. “The car in front of us,” Courfeyrac says, slowly. “Again. Are you even trying?”

“Shut up,” says Enjolras. “Your turn.”

“Yeah, no,” says Courfeyrac. He does something to the phone.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras tries to ask him.

“Combeferre?” says Courfeyrac, into his phone. “Are you there? Can you hear me? I spy with my eye something yello--”

“They’re in a different car they can’t see it,” says Enjolras, trying to grab the phone off of Courfeyrac’s knee without also killing them in a car crash.

“Well at least they’d be better at this game than you,” says Courfeyrac, not letting him reach the phone.

From Combeferre’s line, the group on the bus lets out a collective groan. “Burn,” says Joly, quietly, without much force, and the ensuing boom of laughter from Bossuet drowns out any other comments.

“I am perfectly good at I Spy,” says Enjolras, frowning. “I spy with my little eye something that begins with the letter t--”

“Tires,” interrupts Courfeyrac dully. “You used that before.”

Enjolras turns to glare at him. “I am driving,” he says with dignity. “There is only so much for me to look at that will not end with us in body bags.”

“We could always get him drunk again,” says Bahorel. “Apparently you’re some kind of wonder-kid savant when you’re tipsy.”

“Oi,” says Enjolras, flushing.

“Excuse me?” says Valjean.

“Shit,” says Bahorel. “I mean--”

“Uh,” puts in Bossuet. “Well.”

“Enjolras?” says Joly, sounding faint.

Enjolras figures he’ll let his friends handle that for a bit. Courfeyrac looks a bit surprised, but he very quickly grins and hands over the phone without a fight.“So we’re probably about an hour out,” he says. “We’ll touch base in a bit, ‘kay? Bye!”

He hangs up with far more aplomb than necessary and grins.

“Not to rain on that lovely display there,” says Courfeyrac. “But we didn’t just get you in trouble with your dad, did we?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Oh no,” he says. “He found me in the bathroom the morning after.”

“Ah,” says Courfeyrac.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras. “They can sweat a little, though.”

Courfeyrac leans over and shoves him, gently. “I like this you,” he says, quietly.

Enjolras turns to look at him, but Courfeyrac just smiles back at him and doesn’t clarify.

“We should call them back,” he says.

Enjolras turns on his blinker, does a quick head-check, and changes lanes. “Okay.” He hands over the phone and watches Courfeyrac dial. The phone rings through, but when they answer, there is only silence from their side.

“So FYI,” says Enjolras mildly, after a pause. “My father and I talked about the drinking last night.”

There is another moment of silence before Bahorel says quietly, “I hate you so much right now.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Feuilly.

“And me.” Bossuet is almost too quiet for Enjolras to hear. He blinks.

“Why is everyone so quiet?” says Courfeyrac.

“Your father is very knowledgeable about bodily harm,” says Joly, sounding miserable.

“Oh,” says Enjolras.

“Yeah,” says Combeferre. “I don’t think any of us will be mocking Marius ever again.”

“Or R,” says Feuilly. “The idiot literally barged into my room after dinner at your house and stared at a wall.”

Enjolras’ stomach does a weird swooping thing. “He did?”

It sounds like someone hits Feuilly. “...Yeah.”

“That’s, um,” says Enjolras, willing the words to come to him. At his side, Courfeyrac is looking at him with sudden, sharp interest and curiosity.

“How close are you guys?” he says, saving Enjolras. “We left a bit after you because Enjolras wanted to woo Grantaire,” he adds, and this time when Enjolras reaches for the phone he reaches it.

“Give me that,” he says. He turns it off speaker and puts it to his ear. “Combeferre?”

“That’s illegal, you know,” says Combeferre, but from the sudden barrage of protest in the background, he’s done the same.

“You’d better make it quick, then,” says Enjolras.

“I live to please you,” says Combeferre, dryly.

“Damn straight,” says Enjolras.

“Do you two need to be alone?” says Courfeyrac, loudly, and Combeferre snickers. “Because if so I’m really sorry but I’m stuck here.”

Enjolras smirks at him. “I don’t know,” he says, considering. “I could probably get your seatbelt off and the door open with enough time to push you out.”

Courfeyrac sputters at him.

“Talking on the phone while driving and now threatening roadside murder,” says Combeferre in his ear. “Whose terrible influence do we owe this to?”

“That’d be Grantaire,” says Feuilly. “I have firsthand experience; proposals were made.”

“What?” squawks Valjean.

“I’m sorry?” says Jehan. “Who proposed to who?”

“Enjolras!” Feuilly cries. “And then Grantaire! So that they could murder me!”

The rest of the bus descends into hushed whispering.

“Combeferre?” says Enjolras. “If possible could you punch Feuilly for me?”

“ _Proposals?_ ” repeats his father.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with, dad!” Enjolras says, loudly, to be heard from the tinny speakers. “If you could concentrate on driving my friends safely?”

“Your dad is a badass,” says Bahorel cheerfully. “He’s flipping you off. If I wasn’t still emotionally scarred from his threatening, I’d high five him.”

Enjolras puts his head in his hands. “Combeferre?” he says. “Punch him too?”

“Violence!” exclaims Feuilly. “Also Grantaire’s influence--ow!”

“Thank you,” says Enjolras.

“You’re welcome.”

Someone hisses, and Enjolras frowns. “Did you put speaker back on?” He does the same, and Courfeyrac takes the phone back with an easy smile. “Combeferre?”

“Not his fault,” says Bahorel cheerfully. “He’s a bit busy.”

“Eponine is going to kill you,” says Bossuet. “I hear she likes his hair like that.”

“Oh, are we free to talk about this now?” pipes up Courfeyrac. “Yay.”

“Have you all known?” says Enjolras, sighing.

“Well, duh,” says Bossuet. “We placed bets.”

“Which I won at,” points out Jehan.

“He also knew first,” Combeferre adds, finally, sounding a little out of breath. “Thank you, Joly.”

“I wrote a sonnet about them,” Jehan agrees, smiling. “I’m writing one for you and Grantaire, if you’d like.”

“What’s it called,” Enjolras says, to hide the sudden flush to his cheeks.

“I can’t tell you that.” Jehan sounds like he’s frowning. “That would ruin the secret.”

“I don’t get what’s the big hubbub about poetry, anyway,” says Bahorel. “I mean, it’s just words.”

Jehan makes a wounded noise, but someone must slap a hand over his mouth because he is silent. Enjolras takes the pause to change lanes again, angling towards their exit.

“I think poetry is romantic,” he says.

No one speaks for a moment.

“What?” says Courfeyrac, finally, from the seat next to him.

“What?” Enjolras feels his shoulders start to raise, and then lowers them. “I’m allowed.”

“No one is disputing that, Enjolras,” says Combeferre.

“No one is disputing that but _since when_ ,” puts in Courfeyrac.

“Since always?” says Enjolras. “I like words.” He doesn’t give the rest of them a chance to respond before turning on his blinker and taking the exit. “We’re about here.”

“Right, yes, so are we,” says Combeferre, voice suddenly very close to the phone.

“Awesome,” says Enjolras, rolling his eyes when Courfeyrac copies him under his breath. “See you there.”

He hangs up, and after a beat, turns to look at Courfeyrac. “What?”

“Nothing,” says Courfeyrac.  “You like poetry?”

Enjolras reaches, takes the phone, and throws at him.

\--

Court is interesting. Enjolras is aware that he’s at less than a hundred percent, but he’s not letting that get to him. So he stumbles a bit. So his skin feels like it won’t ever stop itching. So he can’t stop tugging at his tie. The other side has no chance. He’s been the other side; he _is_ the other side, and no amount of well placed tries at sympathy can compete with hard evidence. It doesn’t bother him nearly as much as he expected to take his own arguments apart, because he knows he can put them back together so they don’t break.

He feels invincible, and no one on the other side notices the little moments when his heart reminds him just what exactly he’s about to do.

Or rather, what he’s about to do if Grantaire shows. Because there’s no guarantee he will, because there’s no guarantee Grantaire _opened_ the sketchbook.

Combeferre notices, because before he gets up to question Joly, he pauses. “You okay?”

Enjolras nods and then sneezes.

Combeferre’s eyes narrow. “You’re still sick,” he says, shooting Courfeyrac a poisonous look over Enjolras’ head and frowning. “You told me you were fine.”

“I am fine,” says Enjolras. “Now go win us a case.”

Courfeyrac goes, but he doesn’t look very happy. He moves through the paces easily enough, his voice carrying in the courtroom and making all the friends and family gathered in the seats straighten in their seats.

“Piece of cake,” Courfeyrac mutters to him, nudging a legal pad over to him, when he get back to his seat. _Stop fidgeting. Are you nervous or something?_ he’s written.

 _Pay attention_ , Enjolras writes, and ignores whatever response that garners. He watches Combeferre disassemble the argument with most of his attention. The rest of it is busy turning his palms sweaty and setting his heart racing.

Courfeyrac gets fed up with his silence. “You seem anxious,” he whispers.

Enjolras sighs. _I might be about to do something incredibly stupid_ , he writes.

Courfeyrac frowns down at the note. _How so_ , he writes, but Enjolras isn’t able to finish his response because Combeferre is saying, “Your witness,” and returning to sit next to them. He grabs the paper before either of them to can react.

“Stupid how?” he says, evenly.

 _It’s nothing,_ Enjolras writes, and then when the opposing side begins, he stops pushing the pad to either of his friends in favor of taking notes for the cross examination. Joly plays his part beautifully, calmly, collectedly, and to the point. His answers are short, even, and when Enjolras looks over, Bossuet is grinning at him.

He finds himself smiling along with him, which only serves to make him sneeze again.

“I think it’s nerves,” Enjolras breathes, finally, when Combeferre just stares at him.

“Nerves.”

“Yeah.”

Combeferre doesn’t say anything in response, because Courfeyrac is getting up to call Bossuet to the stand. Instead, he snags a pen and leans over to write on the pad. _You have never had nerves in your life_. He underlines _life_ with one quick, knife-like stroke. Enjolras shrugs.

_First time for everything?_

Of course, that reminds him of the last time he said that, crowding Grantaire against a bathroom door, and he flushes.

_You’re about to do something horrible, aren’t you._

Enjolras feels his lips twitch. _That was what I said, yes_.

 _No,_ writes Combeferre. _You said stupid. Very different_. He looks up, quickly, and makes a note with regards to the case. _Did you tell him to do that?_

Enjolras follows his eyes to where Courfeyrac is standing, with an intense look on his face.

_Do what?_

_That_.

Courfeyrac has gone off script, which Enjolras can tell, but no one else in the audience can. Bossuet, for his part, rolls with the change.

 _Oh. No?_ he writes.

“Huh,” says Combeferre. “It works.”

Enjolras agrees, and when Courfeyrac comes back to sit next to them, smirking, Enjolras nudges him with his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t have to say anything, but Courfeyrac looks a little pink around the edges.

 _I might-- I don’t need to do what I’m about to do,_ Enjolras starts to write, when the doors to the courtroom come open with a strangled squeak and Cosette and Eponine file in. They’re dragging Grantaire, who looks more than a little like a deer in the headlights, and are flanked by Javert.

The defendant’s side stumbles, but they recover quickly in their questioning of Bossuet.

Enjolras, however, is caught. His eyes slide over Grantaire’s face, taking in the too deep circles under his eyes, the uneasy tilt to his mouth, and the way he settles awkwardly onto the bench next to Eponine. They’ve forced him into dress pants and button down shirt, complete with the tie Enjolras had meant to wear that morning--the silk red one. The combination of the dark maroon color and the rawness of his mouth is enough to make Enjolras swallow; had Grantaire been biting his lip, perhaps, the entire way here?

With his hands, Grantaire is clutching the sketchbook, which should be important, but it’s his eyes that catch Enjolras’ attention. He always notes the blue of them, but the way Grantaire refuses to hold his gaze makes Enjolras frown.

But then, he isn’t looking away, and Enjolras stares down at the page where he’d begun writing if only to have something else to do.

 _You were saying?_ Courfeyrac has written. Enjolras hears the three words in his voice perfectly; glee and failed innocence all wrapped into one neat package.

 _He makes you happy_ , Combeferre has conceded. _Please try not to hurt yourself, though. Or strain something_.

When Enjolras turns to look at him, his eyes are dancing. _Very funny_.

The defense finishes their cross of Bossuet with tight smiles and Enjolras’ head snaps up. He’s not been paying nearly enough attention, but Courfeyrac is getting to his feet with a smile to redirect. He pats Enjolras on the back as he goes. “Remember,” he whispers. “Romantic gestures are always good.”

Enjolras watches him go, and swallows.

 He gets through his cross of the defendant’s first witness with lingering feelings of nerves; He’s jumpy and quick to startle but still manages to hit most of his marks, and when he sits back down, Combeferre is shaking his head at him.

 _If you’re worried about appearances,_ his friend writes. _He spent the entire time looking like he couldn’t decide if all he wanted to do was leave, or if all he wanted to do was kiss you_.

Enjolras snaps his head around to glare at Combeferre. “How would you know that?” he hisses.

Courfeyrac chokes on a laugh. “He’s not subtle, Enjolras,” he says. He drags the pad over so that he can make a quick note, tacking on, _do you want me too..._

Enjolras nods, and then frowns. “You don’t have to ask me,” he says.

Courfeyrac gets to his feet. “Objection, leading?”

The Judge nods, and the defense’s Attorney amends, quickly. Enjolras smiles at her, which only serves to make her look even more nervous.

When he turns back to Combeferre, his friend is smirking. _What have I said about making faces at the other side?_ he writes.

 _I smiled at her!_ Enjolras pens back. The back of his neck feels hot.

_Your point?_

_Fuck you!_

“The defense rests,” says the Attorney, and Enjolras looks up apologetically in time to catch the judge’s announcement of the recess prior to closings.

“You ready?” says Cosette. She’s come up to the edge of the seats and is leaning over to look at him. Eponine and Grantaire, still in their seats, are having a very furious conversation in whispers; Grantaire has the sketchbook in front of his chest like a shield. Two seats to the left, Valjean is frowning at Cosette, but he’s remaining in his seat. Enjolras tries very hard not to think about how that is probably because Javert is whispering in his ear.

“Yeah,” he manages, swallowing. “Um, actually, guys?” He turns to the rest of the team.

The team regards him. “You’re about to do something big for R, aren’t you,” says Bahorel, finally. Grantaire looks up from his conversation with Eponine and Bahorel waves, quickly. He waits until Eponine has regained his attention to shoot Enjolras an apologetic look.

“That obvious?”

“You stumbled,” says Jehan, gently. “You never stumble.”

“Oh.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“You’re not angry about that?” Enjolras asks, finally.

The groups shakes their heads at him. “Enjolras, honestly, this club has been _your_ baby,” says Combeferre, finally. “I mean we love it, obviously, but we’re nowhere near as enthusiastic about it as you are.”

Courfeyrac snorts at him. “That’d be convincing if it was anyone but you, saying it,” he says. “But seriously, do what you have to do.”

Enjolras takes in their faces, earnest and unwavering, and nods. “Right,” he says. “Right, okay.”

When the judge come back in, his robes flowing, and calls for closings, Enjolras gets to his feet, ready, and begins.

The defense’s closing leaves something to be desired, and so Enjolras gets up for the rebuttal. He takes advantage of his movement across the floor to look back, over his shoulder at the courtroom, to catch Grantaire’s eyes.

Grantaire must have noticed the way Enjolras had stumbled at places, and seen the slightly shaky look to his hands, because he smiles at him. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it is so very sincere and so very tentative that Enjolras’ chest is suddenly very tight. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and opens his mouth.

“May it please the court,” he says, and begins the closing with a long sigh. It’s not hard, actually, to pull up what he wrote and deliver it with pride. To make the rest of the room go silent and hushed and listen to him. He wishes that he was the opposing side, because the opposing side didn’t get this reaction, and they deserved it, but he isn’t, so he lives on. When he finishes, he’s winded, his breath is short, and the Judge is almost smiling at him. He stumbles, and turns slightly, to find Grantaire’s face in the crowd.

“That was my ending, actually,” he manages to say, somehow, even as Grantaire smiles back at him. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to take this moment to a say few things more.”

There’s a pause, and a few people whisper, and the opposing side is for once wise enough not to speak. Enjolras stumbles his way through a brief background explanation of his mistakes, all without looking at Grantaire and somehow he finds himself standing on the edge, with the entire court room staring back at him silently.

“Um,” he says, and tries to take a deep breath. “Grantaire?” he says. Grantaire stares back at him, before Eponine shoves him upright. Enjolras wishes he was close enough to see if he’s really shaking. “A wise friend once told me that romantic gestures are the best way to apologize when you’ve ruined a relationship. So, um, this is something I wrote for you.”

Courfeyrac whispers something, but Enjolras can’t be bothered to figure out what.

He breathes, again, and begins. “I hate that you surprise me,” he says, and after that the words just flow.

\--

“So you never actually said those three words,” says Courfeyrac, finally. “You said a lot of words, to be fair, and obviously they worked--” He breaks off and Enjolras gets a hand free to flip him off.

He gets distracted, however, when Grantaire does something glorious with his tongue and he very suddenly needs both of his hands to grip at his hair.

“And I mean, you got the number of words right,” Courfeyrac continues. “Just, I would have thought the wrong three words, yeah?” He pauses a bit and Enjolras figures he’s glancing around the bus. “Right?”

“How are you doing that?” Joly asks, finally.

“Doing what?”

“Talking. While they’re doing that.”

“That.”

“ _That_.”

“Making out,” says Combeferre helpfully from the driver’s seat. “Why am I driving, again?”

Enjolras breaks away for air, and says, “Because there was no way I was spending an hour trapped in a car with my father and my boyfriend.” He feels a bit giddy, saying ‘boyfriend’ and from the slightly pained noise Grantaire makes from somewhere near his neck, he agrees. Enjolras tangles his hand better in Grantaire’s hair and sighs.

“Right,” says Combeferre. “Oh and while your mouth is not otherwise occupied--”

Someone from the back has the gall to wolf whistle.

“--Can I just say that while I am incredibly happy for you, _never do that again_.”

“Hey, you said you were cool with it,” says Enjolras.

“I thought it was sweet,” says Grantaire hoarsely. He hasn’t lifted his head free of Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras can’t tell if it’s because he’s lazy or if he’s hiding.

“You thought it was a lot of things, but sweet was not one of them,” says Bossuet. Someone high-fives him; Enjolras can’t be bothered to check who.

“Yes, well,” says Combeferre. “I’m making an exception because it was actually kind of sweet. But never again.”

“That’s okay,” says Enjolras, looking down at Grantaire in a way that even he has to admit is almost shy. “I don’t foresee needing to ruin team events by begging for forgiveness anytime soon. Unless you’re planning on breaking up with me?”

Grantaire swallows heavily. “Not anytime soon,” he says.

“But maybe later?” Enjolras teases.

“No,” says Grantaire, sounding certain. “Never.”

And Enjolras has to kiss him again, because how could he not.

“Aw,” says Courfeyrac. “That’s actually really cute.”

“Again,” says Joly. “How can you do that?”

“I have practice, Joly, my friend.” Courfeyrac’s voice gets softer, so Enjolras assumes that he’s moved to drape himself all over their friend. “What’s a little kissing compared to proper bedroom grinding?”

Grantaire makes a choking, laughing noise against Enjolras’ mouth, and pulls away. “Courfeyrac,” he says seriously, “The number of times I have found you doing much worse at parties is in the double digits.”

Courfeyrac grins back at him. “You’re never going to beat me,” he says. “Enjolras is not that type of girl.”

“What are you saying about girls?” says Cosette. She hasn’t uncovered her eyes since the bus ride began, but she doesn’t need eye contact to make everyone collectively shudder. “Don’t make me call Eponine.”

“She’d probably be grateful,” says Combeferre. “Trapped in a car with your father and Bahorel... cold of you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Again,” he says. “Boyfriend, bus, father.”

“I will never get tired of hearing you say that,” says Grantaire. He leans in a little bit so that they’re nose to nose. “Boyfriend.”

Enjolras shivers.

“I think I’m getting a cavity,” says Bossuet faintly.

“What?” comes Joly’s voice, shrill.

“Figure of speech, Joly!” says Courfeyrac, loudly. “Everything is fine!”

“I know that,” Joly says, crossly. “Only, would you mind opening your mouth for me anyway.”

Courfeyrac chokes, and the bus goes silent.

“Something to say, Courfeyrac?” says Combeferre, from the front. “A joke to make, maybe?”

“No,” says Courfeyrac. “No, not at all.”

“Good.” Combeferre flips on the busses blinker. “Because we’re back to school. Finally.” He sighs, shaking his head, and parks the bus.

Everyone files out neatly, Joly looking very happy to be back to campus, and start pulling off their coats and ties. “Normal clothes,” says Bossuet. “How I long for non-courtroom apparel.”

There is a resounding laugh as the rest of the group makes their way towards Eponine, who is grinning, and Bahorel, who looks slightly shell shocked.

Grantaire goes to follow, but Enjolras catches him by the wrist.

“Enjolras?”

“Wait, um,” he says, suddenly nervous all over again. “I think we should still probably talk?”

Grantaire’s eyebrows raise. “Okay,” he says slowly, following Enjolras around the side of the bus. “What about?”

“Just, I wanted to apologize?”

“What for?”

“Just, I made a mess out of things, is all,” says Enjolras. He still refuses to meet his eyes. “And I wanted to own up to that.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire. He doesn’t say anything else, and so Enjolras is forced to look up at him. Grantaire is smiling, kindly, and looks almost smug.

“What?”

“Nothing. Or, no. You gave up the Mock Trial final for me.” He reaches down to take hold of Enjolras’ hand. “And you’re adorable.”

“You said that,” Enjolras says, to hide his flush.

“Those things you said,” says Grantaire. “About how very much you hate me.”

For the first time Enjolras feels embarrassed about his speech. “Yeah?”

“I read between the lines, obviously, but do you think you might say it?”

Enjolras meets his eyes, suddenly, and his heart pounds. “Oh,” he says. “I, yeah, of course, um.”

Grantaire is smiling at him, but his looks just a touch vulnerable.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras begins.

“Enjolras?”

“You might not remember me, but we had freshman art together?”

“Don’t think I remember that, no.”

“Ah, well, we did.” Enjolras finds he can’t help the smile that is gracing his own lips. “Anyway, it’s come to my attention that possibly I like you an awful lot, so would you go out with me?”

Grantaire’s answering expression is breathtaking. “I don’t know,” he says. “Word on the street is that you’re terrible at paying debts.”

Enjolras blinks.

“You never did give me those two hundred dollars.”

Enjolras hits him. “You idiot,” he says softly, tightening his grip on Grantaire’s hand.

“Yes,” agrees Grantaire. “Because, despite all that, my answer is still going to have to be yes.”

“Really?” says Enjolras.

“No,” says Grantaire. “You’re just a really good kisser and I figured the only way you’d let me make out with you in a bus for an hour was if I took one for the team and agreed to date you.”

Enjolras is laughing before he finishes, letting go of this hand so that he can cup Grantaire’s cheeks and kiss him again. “You’re awful,” he says. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I really do, though. I wrote a poem about it. Want to hear it?”

“Ha ha,” Grantaire breathes once against his mouth, smirking, and leans in closer.

“Oi!” comes their friend’s voices. “Enjolras. Grantaire! Stop having sex behind the van and get your asses over here!”

Enjolras can make out  the voices of Bahorel, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac in the added cheer of, “Group picture!” and so he grabs Grantaire’s hand again and starts to tug him around towards their friends.

“After you,” he says, smiling.

“Lead the way, oh mighty Apollo,” says Grantaire.

“Stop calling me that,” says Enjolras.

“You like it,” says Grantaire.

“No,” insists Enjolras, but he’s grinning, and when Combeferre and Courfeyrac reach them and drag them close for the photograph, he finds he really doesn’t care. Grantaire gives him bunny ears, so Enjolras kisses him, with tongue, until their friends give up and leave them there alone.

 _I missed you_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t, and Grantaire grins at him and hears it anyway.

\--

I hate that you surprise me

and that you think you’re nothing great.

I hate your taste in literature.

I hate it when you’re late.

I hate it when we argue, because you always think you’re wrong.

I hate how you never let me be;

but also when you’re gone.

But most of all, I hate that I don’t hate you.

Not even a little bit.

Not even at all.

**End.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I am going to do some R POV oneshot things in this verse, but also come check out an [epilogue type thing](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/52673459973/guess-who-just-accidentally-wrote-cosettes-graduation) (about Cosette's graduation from high school) that was inspired by an ask from [forgiveninasong](http://forgiveninasong.tumblr.com/)


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